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coherent detective stories was beyond him, and yet, for all her muddle-headedness she often surprised him by her sudden perception of truth.
    “The time is short - short,” he murmured to himself, “Is there something wrong here, as Mrs Oliver believes? I am inclined to think there is. But what? Who is there who could enlighten me? I need to know more, much more, about the people in this house. Who is there who could inform me?”
    After a moment's reflection he seized his hat (Poirot never risked going out in the evening air with uncovered head), and hurried out of his room and down the stairs. He heard afar the dictatorial baying of Mrs Masterton's deep voice. Nearer at hand, Sir George's voice rose with an amorous intonation.
    “Damned becoming that yasmak thing. Wish I had you in my harem, Sally. I shall come and have my fortune told a good deal tomorrow. What'll you tell me, eh?”
    There was a slight scuffle and Sally Legge's voice said breathlessly:
    “George, you mustn't.”
    Poirot raised his eyebrows, and slipped out of a conveniently adjacent side door. He set off at top speed down a back drive which his sense of locality enabled him to predict would at some point join the front drive.
    His manoeuvre was successful and enabled him - panting very slightly - to come up beside Mrs Folliat and relieve her in a gallant manner of her gardening basket.
    “You permit, Madame?”
    “Oh, thank you, M. Poirot, that's very kind of you. But it's not heavy.”
    “Allow me to carry it for you to your home. You live near here?”
    “I actually live in the lodge by the front gate. Sir George very kindly rents it to me.”
    The lodge by the front gate of her former home... How did she really feel about that, Poirot pondered. Her composure was so absolute that he had no clue to her feelings. He changed the subject by observing:
    “Lady Stubbs is much younger than her husband, is she not?”
    “Twenty-three years younger.”
    “Physically she is very attractive.”
    Mrs Folliat said quietly:
    “Hattie is a dear good child.”
    It was not an answer he had expected. Mrs Folliat went on:
    “I know her very well, you see. For a short time she was under my care.”
    “I did not know that.”
    “How should you? It is in a way a sad story. Her people had estates, sugar estates, in the West Indies. As a result of an earthquake, the house there was burned down and her parents and brothers and sisters all lost their lives. Hattie herself was at a convent in Paris and was thus suddenly left without any near relatives. It was considered advisable by the executors that Hattie should be chaperoned and introduced into society after she had spent a certain time abroad. I accepted charge of her.” Mrs Folliat added wit a dry smile: “I can smarten myself up on occasions and, naturally, I had the necessary connections - in fact, the late Governor had been a close friend of ours.”
    “Naturally, Madame I understand all that.”
    “It suited me very well - I was going through a difficult time. My husband had died just before the outbreak of war. My elder son who was in the navy went down with his ship, my younger son, who had been out in Kenya, came back, joined the commandos and was killed in Italy. That meant lots of death duties and this house had to be put up for sale. I myself was very badly off and I as glad of the distraction of having someone young to after and travel about with. I became very fond of Hattie, all the more perhaps, because I soon realised that she was - shall we say - not fully capable of fending for herself? Understand me, M. Poirot, Hattie is not mentally deficient, but she is what country folk describe as 'simple.' She is easily imposed upon, over docely, completely open to suggestion. I think myself that it was a blessing there was practically no money. If she had been an heiress her position might have been one of much greater difficulty. She was attractive to men and being of an affectionate nature was