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of that almost feverish anxiety which she had displayed during the check to the Taurus Express.
    Mrs. Hubbard was off again.
    â€œThere isn’t anybody knows a thing on this train. And nobody’s trying to do anything. Just a pack of useless foreigners. Why, if this were at home, there’d be someone at least trying to do something.”
    Arbuthnot turned to Poirot and spoke in careful British French.
    â€œVous êtes un directeur de la ligne, je crois, Monsieur. Vous pouvez nous dire—”
    Smiling Poirot corrected him.
    â€œNo, no,” he said in English. “It is not I. You confound me with my friend M. Bouc.”
    â€œOh! I’m sorry.”
    â€œNot at all. It is most natural. I am now in the compartment that he had formerly.”
    M. Bouc was not present in the restaurant car. Poirot looked about to notice who else was absent.
    Princess Dragomiroff was missing and the Hungarian couple. Also Ratchett, his valet, and the German lady’s maid.
    The Swedish lady wiped her eyes.
    â€œI am foolish,” she said. “I am baby to cry. All for the best, whatever happen.”
    This Christian spirit, however, was far from being shared.
    â€œThat’s all very well,” said MacQueen restlessly. “We may be here for days.”
    â€œWhat is this country anyway?” demanded Mrs. Hubbard tearfully.
    On being told it was Yugo-Slavia she said:
    â€œOh! one of these Balkan things. What can you expect?”
    â€œYou are the only patient one, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot to Miss Debenham.
    She shrugged her shoulders slightly.
    â€œWhat can one do?”
    â€œYou are a philosopher, Mademoiselle.”
    â€œThat implies a detached attitude. I think my attitude is more selfish. I have learned to save myself useless emotion.”
    She was not even looking at him. Her gaze went past him, out of the window to where the snow lay in heavy masses.
    â€œYou are a strong character, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot gently. “You are, I think, the strongest character amongst us.”
    â€œOh, no. No, indeed. I know one far far stronger than I am.”
    â€œAnd that is—?”
    She seemed suddenly to come to herself, to realize that she was talking to a stranger and a foreigner with whom, until this morning, she had only exchanged half a dozen sentences.
    She laughed a polite but estranging laugh.
    â€œWell—that old lady, for instance. You have probably noticed her. A very ugly old lady, but rather fascinating. She has only to lift a little finger and ask for something in a polite voice—and the whole train runs.”
    â€œIt runs also for my friend M. Bouc,” said Poirot. “But that is because he is a director of the line, not because he has a masterful character.”
    Mary Debenham smiled.
    The morning wore away. Several people, Poirot amongst them, remained in the dining car. The communal life was felt, at the moment, to pass the time better. He heard a good deal more about Mrs. Hubbard’s daughter and he heard the lifelong habits of Mr. Hubbard, deceased, from his rising in the morning and commencing breakfast with a cereal to his final rest at night in the bedsocks that Mrs. Hubbard herself had been in the habit of knitting for him.
    It was when he was listening to a confused account of the missionary aims of the Swedish lady that one of the Wagon Lit conductors came into the car and stood at his elbow.
    â€œPardon, Monsieur.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThe compliments of M. Bouc, and he would be glad if you would be so kind as to come to him for a few minutes.”
    Poirot rose, uttered excuses to the Swedish lady and followed the man out of the dining car.
    It was not his own conductor, but a big fair man.
    He followed his guide down the corridor of his own carriage and along the corridor of the next one. The man tapped at a door, then stood aside to let Poirot enter.
    The compartment was not M. Bouc’s own. It was a