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spinster.”
    “Yes,” I said. “A real fussy old maid. Why can't she say what she's talking about?”
    Poirot sighed.
    “As you say - a regrettable failure to employ order and method in the mental processes, and without order and method, Hastings -”
    “Quite so,” I interrupted hastily. “Little grey cells practically nonexistent.”
    “I would not say that, my friend.”
    “I would! What's the sense of writing a letter like that?”
    “Very little - that is true,” Poirot admitted.
    “A long rigmarole all about nothing,” I went on. “Probably some upset to her fat lapdog - an asthmatic pug or a yapping Pekingese!”
    I looked at my friend curiously.
    “And yet you read that letter through twice. I do not understand you, Poirot.”
    Poirot smiled.
    “You, Hastings, you would have put it straight in the waste-paper basket?”
    “I'm afraid I should.” I frowned down on the letter. “I suppose I'm being dense, as usual, but I can't see anything of interest in this letter!”
    “Yet there is one point in it of great interest - a point that struck me at once.”
    “Wait,” I cried. “Don't tell me. Let me see if I can't discover it for myself.”
    It was childish of me, perhaps. I examined the letter very thoroughly. Then I shook my head.
    “No, I don't see it. The old lady's got the wind up, I realize that - but then, old ladies often do! It may be about nothing - it may conceivably be about something, but I don't see that you can tell that that is so. Unless your instinct -”
    Poirot raised an offended hand.
    “Instinct! You know how I dislike that word. 'Something seems to tell me' - that is what you infer. Jamais de la vie! Me, I reason. I employ the little grey cells. There is one interesting point about that letter which you have overlooked utterly, Hastings.”
    “Oh, well,” I said wearily. “I'll buy it.”
    “Buy it? Buy what?”
    “An expression. Meaning that I will permit you to enjoy yourself by telling me just where I have been a fool.”
    “Not a fool, Hastings, merely unobservant.”
    “Well, out with it. What's the interesting point? I suppose, like the 'incident of the dog in the nighttime,' the point is that there is no interesting point!”
    Poirot disregarded this sally on my part.
    He said quietly and calmly:
    “The interesting point is the date.”
    “The date?”
    I picked up the letter. On the top lefthand corner was written April 17th.
    “Yes,” I said slowly. “That is odd. April 17th.”
    “And we are today June 28th. C'est curieux, n'est-ce pas? Over two months ago.”
    I shook my head doubtfully.
    “It probably doesn't mean anything. A slip. 'She meant to put June and wrote April instead.”
    “Even then it would be ten or eleven days old - an odd fact. But actually you are in error. Look at the colour of the ink. That letter was written more than ten or eleven days ago. No, April 17th is the date assuredly. But why was the letter not sent?”
    I shrugged my shoulders.
    “That's easy. The old pussy changed her mind.”
    “Then why did she not destroy the letter” Why keep it over two months and post it now?"
    I had to admit that that was harder to answer. In fact, I couldn't think of a really satisfactory answer. I merely shook my head and said nothing.
    Poirot nodded.
    “You see - it is a point! Yes, decidedly a curious point.”
    He went over to his writing-table and took up a pen.
    “You are answering the letter?” I asked.
    “Oui, mon ami.”
    The room was silent except for the scratching of Poirot's pen. It was a hot, airless morning. A smell of dust and tar came in through the window.
    Poirot rose from his desk, the completed letter in his hand. He opened a drawer and drew out a little square box. From this he took out a stamp. Moistening this with a little sponge, he prepared to affix it to the letter.
    Then suddenly he paused, stamp in hand, shaking his head with vigour.
    “Non!” he exclaimed. “That is the wrong thing I do.” He tore