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him to be wrapped in impenetrable fog.
    â€œWell,” said Captain Warburton cheerfully, glancing at his wristwatch, “I’d better be off to the printers and collect.”
    Mrs. Oliver groaned.
    â€œIf they’re not done—”
    â€œOh, they’re done all right. I telephoned. So long.”
    He left the room.
    Mrs. Oliver immediately clutched Poirot by the arm and demanded in a hoarse whisper:
    â€œWell?”
    â€œWell—what?”
    â€œHave you found out anything? Or spotted anybody?”
    Poirot replied with mild reproof in his tones:
    â€œEverybody and everything seems to me completely normal.”
    â€œNormal?”
    â€œWell, perhaps that is not quite the right word. Lady Stubbs, as you say, is definitely subnormal, and Mr. Legge would appear to be rather abnormal.”
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œEverybody appears to be in the expected state of nervous agitation, high excitement, general fatigue, and strong irritation, which are characteristic of preparations for this form of entertainment. If you could only indicate—”
    â€œSh!” 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.
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œThere 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.”
    â€œYes, 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 organized to perfection. Am I to congratulate you, or my charming hostess?”
    â€œLady Stubbs’ time is fully taken up in being charming,” said Miss Brewis, a slightly acid note in her voice.
    â€œA very decorative young woman,” mused Poirot.
    â€œAs you say.”
    â€œBut 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:
    â€œLady 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 gloves 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 through the trees to the river. She looked just once over her shoulder before she disappeared from sight. From behind the magnolia