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equally antiquated.”
    “Really, Colin,” said Mrs. Hubbard, colouring. “You're extremely rude.”
    “I'm not meaning to give offence, but I've got to make things clear. Crime and Punishment, Mr. Poirot, is as far as your horizon stretches.”
    “They seem to me a natural sequence,” said Poirot.
    “You take the narrow view of the Law - and what's more of the Law at its most old fashioned. Nowadays, even the Law has to keep itself cognizant of the newest and most up to date theories of what causes crime. It is the causes that are important, Mr. Poirot.”
    “But there,” cried Poirot, “to speak in your new fashioned phrase, I could not agree with you more!”
    “Then you've got to consider the cause of what has been happening in this house - you've got to find out why these things have been done.”
    “But I am still agreeing with you - yes, that is most important.”
    “Because there always is a reason, and it may be, to the person concerned, a very good reason.”
    At this point, Mrs. Hubbard, unable to contain herself, interjected sharply, “Rubbish.”
    “That's where you're wrong,” said Colin, turning slightly toward her. “You've got to take into account the psychological background.”
    “Psychological balderdash,” said Mrs. Hubbard. “I've no patience with all that sort of talk!”
    “That's because you know precisely nothing about it,” said Colin in a gravely rebuking fashion. He returned his gaze to Poirot.
    “I'm interested in these subjects. I am at present taking a post graduate course in psychiatry and psychology. We come across the most involved and astounding cases, and what I'm pointing out to you, M. Poirot, is that you can't just dismiss the criminal with a doctrine of original sin, or wilful disregard of the laws of the land. You've got to have an understanding of the root of the trouble if you're ever to effect a cure of the young delinquent. These ideas were not known or thought of in your day and I've no doubt you find them hard to accept -”
    “Stealing's stealing,” put in Mrs. Hubbard stubbornly.
    Colin frowned impatiently.
    Poirot said meekly,
    “My ideas are doubtless old fashioned, but I am perfectly prepared to listen to you, Mr. McNabb.”
    Colin looked agreeably surprised.
    “That's very fairly said, Mr. Poirot. Now I'll try to make this matter clear to you, using very simple terms.”
    “Thank you,” said Poirot meekly.
    “For convenience's sake, I'll start with the pair of shoes you brought with you tonight and returned to Sally Finch. If you remember, one shoe was stolen. Only one.”
    “I remember being struck by the fact,” said Poirot.
    Colin McNabb leaned forward, his dour but handsome features were lit up by eagerness.
    “Ah, but you didn't see the significance of it. It's one of the prettiest and most satisfying examples anyone could wish to come across. We have here, very definitely, a Cinderella complex. You are maybe acquainted with the Cinderella fairy story.”
    “Of French origin - mais oui.”
    “Cinderella, the unpaid drudge, sits by the fire, her sisters dressed in their finery, go to the Prince's ball. A Fairy Godmother sends Cinderella too, to that ball. At the stroke of midnight, her finery turns back to rags - she escapes hurriedly, leaving behind her one slipper. So here we have a mind that compares itself to Cinderella (unconsciously, of course). Here we have frustration, envy, the sense of inferiority. The girl steals a slipper. Why?”
    “A girl?”
    “But naturally, a girl. That,” said Colin reprovingly, should be clear to the meanest intelligence."
    “Really, Colin!” said Mrs. Hubbard.
    “Pray continue,” said Poirot, courteously.
    “Probably she herself does not know why she does it - but the inner wish is clear. She wants to be the Princess, to be identified by the Prince and claimed by him. Another significant fact, the slipper is stolen from an attractive girl who is going to a Ball.”
    Colin's pipe had long