Stung into further speech by Poirot’s inquiring glance he continued desperately.

‘You see – a girl was concerned in it.’

‘Ah! parfaitement! An English girl?’

‘Yes. At least – why?’

‘Very simple. You cannot tell me now, but you hope to do so in a day or two. That means that you want to obtain the consent of the young lady. Therefore she is in England. Also, she must have been in England during the time you were shadowed, for if she had been in America you would have sought her out then and there. Therefore, since she has been in England for the last eighteen months she is probably, though not certainly, English. It is good reasoning that, eh?’

‘Rather. Now tell me, M. Poirot, if I get her permission, will you look into the matter for me?’

There was a pause. Poirot seemed to be debating the matter in his mind. Finally he said:

‘Why have you come to me before going to her?’

‘Well, I thought–’ he hesitated. ‘I wanted to persuade her to – to clear things up – I mean to let things be cleared up by you. What I mean is, if you investigate the affair, nothing need be made public, need it?’

‘That depends,’ said Poirot calmly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If there is any question of crime–’

‘Oh! there’s no crime concerned.’

‘You do not know. There may be.’

‘But you would do your best for her – for us?’

‘That, naturally.’

He was silent for a moment and then said:

‘Tell me, this follower of yours – this shadow – of what age was he?’ 

‘Oh! quite youngish. About thirty.’

‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘That is indeed remarkable. Yes, that makes the whole thing very much more interesting.’

I stared at him. So did Bryan Martin. This remark of his was, I am sure, equally unexplicable to us both. Bryan questioned me with a lift of the eyebrows. I shook my head.

‘Yes,’ murmured Poirot. ‘It makes the whole story very interesting.’

‘He may have been older,’ said Bryan doubtfully, ‘but I don’t think so.’

‘No, no, I am sure your observation is quite accurate, M. Martin. Very interesting – extraordinarily interesting.’

Rather taken aback by Poirot’s enigmatical words, Bryan Martin seemed at a loss what to say or do next. He started making desultory conversation.

‘An amusing party the other night,’ he said. ‘Jane Wilkinson is the most high-handed woman that ever existed.’

‘She has the single vision,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘One thing at a time.’

‘She gets away with it, too,’ said Martin. ‘How people stand it, I don’t know!’

‘One will stand a good deal from a beautiful woman, my friend,’ said Poirot with a twinkle. ‘If she had the pug nose, the sallow skin, the greasy hair, then – ah! then she would not “get away with it” as you put it.’

‘I suppose not,’ conceded Bryan. ‘But it makes me mad sometimes. All the same, I’m devoted to Jane, though in some ways, mind you, I don’t think she’s quite all there.’

‘On the contrary, I should say she was very much on the spot.’

‘I don’t mean that, exactly. She can look after her interests all right. She’s got plenty of business shrewdness. No, I mean morally.’

‘Ah! morally.’

‘She’s what they call amoral. Right and wrong don’t exist for her.’

‘Ah! I remember you said something of the kind the other evening.’

‘We were talking of crime just now–’

‘Yes, my friend?’

‘Well, it would never surprise me if Jane committed a crime.’

‘And you should know her well,’ murmured Poirot thoughtfully. ‘You have acted much with her, have you not?’

‘Yes. I suppose I know her through and through and up and down. I can see her killing, and quite easily.’

‘Ah! she has the hot temper, yes?’

‘No, no, not at all. Cool as a cucumber. I mean if anyone were in her way she’d just remove them – without a thought. And one couldn’t really blame her – morally, I mean. She’d just think that anyone who interfered with Jane Wilkinson had got to go.’

There was a bitterness in his last words that had been lacking heretofore. I wondered what memory he was recalling.

‘You think she would do – murder?’

Poirot watched him intently.

Bryan drew a deep breath.

‘Upon my soul, I do. Perhaps one of these days, you’ll remember my words… I know her, you see. She’d kill as easily as she’d drink her morning tea. I mean it, M. Poirot.’

He had risen to his feet.

‘Yes,’ said Poirot quietly. ‘I can see you mean it.’

‘I know her,’ said Bryan Martin again, ‘through and through.’

He stood frowning for a minute, then with a change of tone, he said:

‘As to this business we’ve been talking about, I’ll let you know, M. Poirot, in a few days. You will undertake it, won’t you?’

Poirot looked at him for a moment or two without replying.

‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I will undertake it. I find it – interesting.’ 

There was something queer in the way he said the last word. I went downstairs with Bryan Martin. At the door he said to me:

‘Did you get the hang of what he meant about that fellow’s age? I mean, why was it interesting that he should be about thirty? I didn’t get the hang of that at all.’

‘No more did I,’ I admitted.

‘It doesn’t seem to make sense. Perhaps he was just having a game with me.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Poirot is not like that. Depend upon it, the point has significance since he says so.’

‘Well, blessed if I can see it. Glad you can’t either. I’d hate to feel I was a complete nut.’

He strode away. I rejoined my friend.

‘Poirot,’ I said. ‘What was the point about the age of the shadower?’

‘You do not see? My poor Hastings!’ He smiled and shook his head. Then he asked: ‘What did you think of our interview on the whole?’

‘There’s so little to go upon. It seems difficult to say. If we knew more–’

‘Even without knowing more, do not certain ideas suggest themselves to you, mon ami?’

The telephone ringing at that moment saved me from the ignominy of admitting that no ideas whatever suggested themselves to me. I took up the receiver. 

A woman’s voice spoke, a crisp, clear efficient voice.

‘This is Lord Edgware’s secretary speaking. Lord Edgware regrets that he must cancel the appointment with M. Poirot for tomorrow morning. He has to go over to Paris tomorrow unexpectedly. He could see M. Poirot for a few minutes at a quarter-past twelve this morning if that would be convenient.’

I consulted Poirot.

‘Certainly, my friend, we will go there this morning.’

I repeated this into the mouthpiece.

‘Very good,’ said the crisp business-like voice. ‘A quarter-past twelve this morning.’

She rang off.

I arrived with Poirot at Lord Edgware’s house in Regent Gate in a very pleasant state of anticipation. Though I had not Poirot’s devotion to ‘the psychology’, yet the few words in which Lady Edgware had referred to her husband had aroused my curiosity. I was anxious to see what my own judgment would be.

The house was an imposing one – well-built, handsome and slightly gloomy. There were no window-boxes or such frivolities.

The door was opened to us promptly, and by no aged white-haired butler such as would have been in keeping with the exterior of the house. On the contrary, it was opened by one of the handsomest young men I have ever seen. Tall, fair, he might have posed to a sculptor for Hermes or Apollo. Despite his good looks there was something vaguely effeminate that I disliked about the softness of his voice. Also, in a curious way, he reminded me of someone – someone, too, whom I had met quite lately – but who it was I could not for the life of me remember.

We asked for Lord Edgware.

‘This way, sir.’

He led us along the hall, past the staircase, to a door at the rear of the hall.