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abnormal.”
    “Oh, he's all right,” said Mrs Oliver impatiently. “He's had a nervous breakdown.”
    Poirot did not question the somewhat doubtful wording of this sentence but accepted it at its face value.
    “Everybody appears to be in the expected state of nervous agitation, high excitement, general fatigue, and strong irritation which are characteristic of preparation for this form of entertainment. If you could only indicate -”
    “Sh!” Mrs Oliver grasped his arm again. “Someone's coming.”
    It was just like a bad melodrama, Poirot felt, his own irritation mounting.
    The pleasant mild face of Miss Brewis appeared round the door.
    “Oh, there you are, M. Poirot. I've been looking for you to show you your room.”
    She led him up the staircase and along a passage to a big airy room looking out over the river.
    “There is a bathroom just opposite. Sir George talks of adding more bathrooms, but to do so would sadly impair the proportions of the rooms. I hope you'll find everything quite comfortable.”
    “Yes, indeed.” Poirot swept an appreciative eye over the small bookstand, the reading-lamp and the box labelled “Biscuits” by the bedside. “You seem, in this house, to have everything organised to perfection. Am I to congratulate you, or my charming hostess?”
    “Lady Stubb's time is fully taken up in being charming,” said Miss Brewis, a slightly acid note in her voice.
    “A very decorative young woman,” mused Poirot.
    “As you say.”
    “But in other respects is she not, perhaps...” He broke off. “Pardon. I am indiscreet. I comment on something I ought not, perhaps, to mention.”
    Miss Brewis gave him a steady look. She said dryly:
    “Lady Stubbs knows perfectly well exactly what she is doing. Besides being, as you said, a very decorative young woman, she is also a very shrewd one.”
    She had turned away and left the room before Poirot's eyebrows had fully risen in surprise. So that was what the efficient Miss Brewis thought, was it? Or had she merely said so for some reason of her own? And why had she made such a statement to him - to a newcomer? Because he was a newcomer, perhaps? And also because he was a foreigner. As Hercule Poirot had discovered by experience, there were many English people who considered that what one said to foreigners didn't count!
    He frowned perplexedly, staring absentmindedly at the door out of which Miss Brewis had gone. Then he strolled over to the window and stood looking out. As he did so, he saw Lady Stubbs come out of the house with Mrs Folliat and they stood for a moment or two talking by the big magnolia tree. Then Mrs Folliat nodded a good-bye, picked up her gardening basket and glove and trotted off down the drive. Lady Stubbs stood watching her for a moment then absentmindedly pulled off a magnolia flower, smelt it and began slowly to walk down the path that led though the trees to the river. St looked just once over her shoulder before she disappeared from sight. From behind the magnolia tree Michael Weyman came quietly into view, paused a moment irresolutely and then followed the tall slim figure down into the trees.
    A good-looking and dynamic young man, Poirot thought, with a more attractive personality, no doubt, than that of Sir George Stubbs...
    But if so, what of it? Such patterns formed themselves eternally through life. Rich middle-aged unattractive husband, young and beautiful wife with or without sufficient mental development, attractive and susceptible young man. What was there in that to make Mrs Oliver utter a peremptory summons through the telephone? Mrs Oliver, no doubt, had a vivid imagination, but...
    “But after all,” murmured Hercule Poirot to himself, “I am not a consultant in adultery - or in incipient adultery -”
    Could there really be anything in this extraordinary notion of Mrs Oliver's that something was wrong? Mrs Oliver was a singularly muddle-headed woman, and how she managed somehow or other to turn out