اغاثا كريستي , روايات باللغة الانجليزية , على شكل كتابة

الرواية (2)

agatha christie - the mystery of the blue train

Chapter 1
The Man with the White Hair
it was close on midnight when a man
crossed the Place de la Concorde. In spite of
the handsome fur coat which garbed his
meagre form, there was something essentially
weak and paltry about him.
A little man with a face like a rat. A man, one would say, who could never play a conspicuous
part, or rise to prominence in any
sphere. And yet, in leaping to such a conclusion, an onlooker would have been
wrong. For this man, negligible and inconspicuous
as he seemed, played a prominent
part in the destiny of the world. In an Empire
where rats ruled, he was the king of the rats.
Even now, an Embassy awaited his return.
But he had business to do first--business of
which the Embassy was not officially cognizant.
His face gleamed white and sharp in
the moonlight. There was the least hint of a
curve in the thin nose. His father had been
a Polish Jew, a journeyman tailor. It was
business such as his father would have loved
that took him abroad tonight.
He came to the Seine, crossed it, and entered
one of the less reputable quarters of
Paris. Here he stopped before a tall, dilapidated
house and made his way up to an
apartment on the fourth floor. He had barely
time to knock before the door was opened
by a woman who had evidently been awaiting
his arrival. She gave him no greeting, but
helped him off with his overcoat and then
led the way into the tawdrily furnished sitting-room.
The electric light was shaded
with dirty pink festoons, and it softened, but
could not disguise, the girl's face with its
mask of crude paint. Could not disguise, either, the broad Mongolian cast of her countenance.
There was no doubt of Olga
Demiroffs profession, nor of her nationality.

"All is well, little one?"
"All is well, Boris Ivanovitch."
He nodded murmuring: "I do not think
I have been followed."
But there was anxiety in his tone. He ^vent
to the window, drawing the curtains aside
slightly, and peering carefully out. He
started awav violently.
"There are two men--on the opposite
pavement. It looks to me----" He broke off
and began gnawing at his nails--a habit he
had when anxious.
The Russian girl was shaking her head
with a slow, reassuring action.
"They were here before you came."
"All the same, it looks to me as though
they were watching this house."
"Possibly," she admitted indifferently.
"But then----"
"What of it? Even if they know--it will
not be you they will follow from here."
A thin, cruel smile came to his lips.
"No," he admitted, "that is true."
He mused for a minute or two and then
observed.
"This damned American--he can look after
himself as well as anybody."
"I suppose so."
He went again to the window.
"Tough customers," he muttered, with a
chuckle. "Known to the police, I fear. Well, well, I wish Brother Apache good hunting."
Olga Demiroff shook her head.
"If the American is the kind of man they
say he is, it will take more than a couple of
cowardly apaches to get the better of him."
She paused. "I wonder----"
"Well?"
"Nothing. Only twice this evening a man
has passed along this street--a man with
white hair."
"What of it?"
"This. As he passed those two men, he
dropped his glove. One of them picked it up
and returned it to him. A threadbare device."
"You mean--that the white-haired man
is--their employer?"
"Something of the kind."
The Russian looked alarmed and uneasy.
"You are sure--the parcel is safe? It has
not been tampered with? There has been too
much talk . . . much too much talk."
He gnawed his nails again.
"Judge for yourself."
She bent to the fireplace, deftly removing
the coals. Underneath, from amongst the
crumpled balls of newspaper, she selected
from the very middle an oblong package
wrapped round with grimy newspaper, and
handed it to the man.
"Ingenious," he said, with a nod of approval.

"The apartment has been searched twice.
The mattress on my bed was ripped open."
"It is as I said," he muttered. "There has
been too much talk. This haggling over the
price--it was a mistake."
He had unwrapped the newspaper. Inside
was a small brown paper parcel. This in turn
he unwrapped, verified the *******s, and
quickly wrapped it up once more. As he did
so, an electric bell rang sharply.
"The American is punctual," said Olga,
with a glance at the clock.
She left the room. In a minute she returned
ushering in a stranger, a big, broadshouldered
man whose transatlantic origin
was evident. His keen glance went from one
to the other.
"M. Krassnine?" he inquired politely.
"I am he," said Boris. "I must apologize
for--for the unconventionality of this meeting-place.
But secrecy is urgent. I--I cannot
afford to be connected with this business in
any way."
"Is that so?" said the American politely.
"I have your word, have I not, that no
details of this transaction will be made public?
That is one of the conditions of--sale."
The American nodded.
"That has already been agreed upon," he
said indifferently. "Now, perhaps, you will
produce the goods."
"You have the money--in notes?"
"Yes," replied the other.
He did not, however, make any attempt
to produce it. After a moment's hesitation, Krassnine gestured towards the small parcel
on the table.
The American took it up and unrolled the
wrapping paper. The *******s he took over
to a small electric lamp and submitted them
to a very thorough examination. Satisfied, he drew from his pocket a thick leather wallet
and extracted from it a wad of notes.
These he handed to the Russian, who
counted them carefully.
"All right?"
"I thank you. Monsieur. Everything is
correct."
"Ah!" said the other. He slipped the
brown paper parcel negligently into his
pocket. He bowed to Olga. "Good evening, Mademoiselle. Good evening, M. Krass
nine."
He
went out, shutting the door behind
him. The eyes of the two in the room met.
The man passed his tongue over his dry lips.
"I wonder--will he ever get back to his
hotel?" he muttered.
By common accord, they both turned to
the window. They were just in time to see
the American emerge into the street below.
He turned to the left and marched along at
a good pace without once turning his head.
Two shadows stole from a doorway and followed
noiselessly. Pursuers and pursued
vanished into the night. Olga Demiroff
spoke.
"He will get back safely," she said. "You
need not fear--or hope--whichever it is."
"Why do you think he will be safe?" asked
Krassnine curiously.
"A man who has made as much money as
he has could not possibly be a fool," said
Olga. "And talking of money----"
She looked significantly at Krassnine.
"Eh?"
"My share, Boris Ivanovitch."
With some reluctance, Krassnine handed
over two of the notes. She nodded her
thanks, with a complete lack of emotion, and
tucked them away in her stocking.
"That is good," she remarked, with satisfaction.

He looked at her curiously.
"You have no regrets, Olga Vassilovna?"
"Regrets? For what?"
"For what has been in your keeping.
There are women--most women, I believe, who go mad over such things."
She nodded reflectively.
"Yes, you speak truth there. Most women
have that madness. I--have not. I wonder
now----" She broke off.
"Well?" asked the other curiously.
"The American will be safe with them--
yes, I am sure of that. But afterwards----"
"Eh? What are you thinking of?"
"He will give them, of course, to some
woman," said Olga thoughtfully. "I wonder
what will happen then. ..."
She shook herself impatiently and went
over to the window. Suddenly she uttered
an exclamation and called to her companion.
"See, he is going down the street now--
the man I mean."
They both gazed down together. A slim,
elegant figure was progressing along at a leisurely
pace. He wore an opera hat and a
cloak. As he passed a street lamp, the light
illumined a thatch of thick white hair.
~^r
Chapter 2
M. Le Marquis
the man with the white hair continued on
his course 5 unhurried, and seemingly indifferent
to his surroundings. He took a side
turning to the right and another one to the
left. Now and then he hummed a little air
to himself.
Suddenly he stopped dead and listened
intently. He had heard a certain sound. It
might have been the bursting of a tyre or it
might have been--a shot. A curious smile
played round his lips for a minute. Then
he resumed his leisurely walk.
On turning a corner he came upon a scene
of some activity. A representative of the law
was making notes in a pocket-book, and one
or two late passers-by had collected on the
spot. To one of these the man with the
white hair made a polite request for information.

"Something has been happening, yes?"
"Mais out. Monsieur. Two apaches set
upon an elderly American gentleman."
"They did him no injury?"
"No, indeed." The man laughed. "The
American, he had a revolver in his pocket, and before they could attack him, he fired
shots so closely round them that they took
alarm and fled. The police, as usual, arrived
too late."
"Ah!" said the inquirer.
He displayed no emotion of any kind.
Placidly and unconcernedly he resumed
his nocturnal strolling. Presently he crossed
the Seine and came into the richer areas of
the city. It was some twenty minutes later
that he came to a stop before a certain house
in a quiet but aristocratic thoroughfare.
The shop, for shop it was, was a restrained
and unpretentious one. D. Papopolous, dealer
in antiques, was so known to fame that he
needed no advertisement, and indeed most
of his business was not done over a counter.
M. Papopolous had a very handsome apartment
of his own overlooking the Champs
Ely sees, and it might reasonably be supposed
that he would have been found there
and not at his place of business at such
an hour, but the man with the white hair
seemed confident of success as he pressed
10
the obscurely placed bell, having first given
a quick glance up and down the deserted
street.
His confidence was not misplaced. The
door opened and a man stood in the aperture.
He wore gold rings in his ears and was of a
swarthy cast of countenance.
"Good evening," said the stranger. "Your
master is within?"
"The master is here, but he does not see
chance visitors at this time of night,"
growled the other.
"I think he will see me. Tell him that his
friend M. Ie Marquis is here."
The man opened the door a little wider
and allowed the visitor to enter.
The man who gave his name as M. Ie Marquis
had shielded his face with his hand as
he spoke. When the man-servant returned
with the information that M. Papopolous
would be pleased to receive the visitor a further
change had taken place in the stranger's
appearance. The man-servant must have
I been very unobservant or very well trained
for he betrayed no surprise at the small black
satin mask which hid the other's features.
Leading the way to a door at the end of the
I hall, he opened it and announced in a reI1
spectful murmur: "M. Ie Marquis."
n
The figure which rose to receive this
strange guest was an imposing one. There
was something venerable and patriarchal
about M. Papopolous. He had a high domed
forehead and a beautiful white beard. His
manner had in it something ecclesiastical and
benign.
"My dear friend," said M. Papopolous.
He spoke in French and his tones were
rich and unctuous.
"I must apologize," said the visitor, "for
the lateness of the hour."
"Not at all. Not at all," said M.
Papopolous--"an interesting time of night.
You have had, perhaps, an interesting evening?"

"Not personally," said M. Le Marquis.
"Not personally," repeated M. Papopolous, "no, no, of course not. And there is
news, eh?"
He cast a sharp glance sideways at the
other, a glance that was not ecclesiastical or
benign in the least.
"There is no news. The attempt failed. I
hardly expected anything else."
"Quite so," said M. Papopolous; "anything
crude----"
He waved his hand to express his intense
distaste for crudity in any form. There was
indeed nothing crude about M. Papopolous
nor about the goods he handled. He was well
known in most European courts, and kings
called him Demetrius in a friendly manner.
He had the reputation for the most exquisite
discretion. That, together with the nobility
of his aspect, had carried him through several
very questionable transactions.
"The direct attack----" said M. Papopolous.
He shook his head. "It answers
sometimes--but very seldom."
The other shrugged his shoulders.
"It saves time," he remarked, "and to fail
costs nothing--or next to nothing. The other
plan--will not fail."
"Ah," said M. Papopolous, looking at him
keenly.
The other nodded slowly.
"I have great confidence in your--er--
reputation," said the antique dealer.
M. Ie Marquis smiled gently.
"I think I may say," he murmured, "that
your confidence will not be misplaced."
"You have unique opportunities," said
the other, with a note of envy in his voice.
"I make them," said M. Ie Marquis.
He rose and took up the cloak which he
had thrown carelessly on the back of a chair.
"I will keep you informed, M. PapopoyTr'.,
lous, through the usual channels, but there
must be no hitch in your arrangements."
M. Papopolous was pained.
"There is never a hitch in my arrangements,"
he complained.
The other smiled, and without any further
word of adieu he left the room, closing the
door behind him.
M. Papopolous remained in thought for a
moment stroking his venerable white beard, and then moved across to a second door
which opened inwards. As he turned the
handle, a young woman, who only too clearly
had been leaning against it with her ear to
the keyhole, stumbled headlong into the
room. M. Papopolous displayed neither surprise
nor concern. It was evidently all quite
natural to him.
"Well, Zia?" he asked.
"I did not hear him go," explained Zia.
She was a handsome young woman, built
on Junoesque lines, with dark flashing eyes
and such a general air of resemblance to M.
Papopolous that it was easy to see they were
father and daughter.
"It is annoying," she continued vexedly, "that one cannot see through a keyhole and
hear through it at the same time."
"It has often annoyed me," said M. Papopolous,
with great simplicity.
"So that is M. Ie Marquis," said Zia
slowly. "Does he always wear a mask, father?"

"Always."
There was a pause.
"It is the rubies, I suppose?" asked Zia.
Her father nodded.
"What do you think, my little one?" he
inquired, with a hint of amusement in his
beady black eyes.
"Of M. Ie Marquis?"
"Yes."
"I think," said Zia slowly, "that it is a
very rare thing to find a well-bred Englishman
who speaks French as well as that."
"Ah!" said M. Papopolous, "so that is
what you think."
As usual, he did not commit himself, but
he regarded Zia with benign approval.
"I thought, too," said Zia, "that his head
was an odd shape."
"Massive," said her father--"a trifle massive.
But then that effect is always created
by a wig."
They both looked at each other and
smiled.
i e
Chapter 3
Heart of F/re
rufus van aldin passed through the revolving
doors of the Savoy, and walked to
the reception desk. The desk clerk smiled a
respectful greeting.
"Pleased to see you back again, Mr. Van
Aldin," he said.
The American millionaire nodded his
head in a casual greeting.
"Everything all right?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. Major Knighton is upstairs in
the suite now."
Van Aldin nodded again.
"Any mail?" he vouchsafed.
"They have all been sent up, Mr. Van
Aldin. Oh! wait a minute."
He dived into a pigeon hole, and produced
a letter.
"Just come this minute," he explained.
Rufus Van Aldin took the letter from him, and as he saw the handwriting, a woman's
flowing hand, his face was suddenly transformed.
The harsh contours of it softened, and the hard line of his mouth relaxed. He
looked a different man. He walked across to
the lift with the letter in his hand and the
smile still still on his lips.
In the drawing-room of his suite, a young
man was sitting at a desk nimbly sorting
correspondence with the ease born of long
practice. He sprang up as Van Aldin entered.
"Hallo, Knighton!"
"Glad to see you back, sir. Had a good
time?"
"So so!" said the millionaire unemotionally.
"Paris is rather a one-horse citynowadays.
Still--I got what I went over for."
He smiled to himself rather grimly.
"You usually do, I believe," said the secretary, laughing.
"That's so," agreed the other.
He spoke in a matter-of-fact manner, as one stating a well-known fact. Throwing
off his heavy overcoat, he advanced to the
desk.
"Anything urgent?"
"I don't think so, sir. Mostly the usual ^uff. I have not quite finished sorting it
out."
Van Aldin nodded briefly. He was a man
who seldom expressed either blame or
praise. His methods with those he employed
were simple; he gave them a fair trial and
dismissed promptly those who were inefficient.
His selections of people were unconventional.
Knighton, for instance, he had
met casually at a Swiss resort two months
previously. He had approved of the fellow, looked up his war record, and found in it
the explanation of the limp with which he
walked. Knighton had made no secret of the
fact that he was looking for a job, and indeed
diffidently asked the millionaire if he knew
of any available post. Van Aldin remembered, with a grim smile of amusement, the
young man's complete astonishment when
he had been offered the post of secretary to
the great man himself.
"But--but I have no experience of business,"
he had stammered.
"That doesn't matter a cuss," Van Aldin
had replied. "I have got three secretaries already
to attend to that kind of thing. But I
am likely to be in England for the next six
months, and I want an Englishman who--
well, knows the ropes--and can attend to
the social side of things for me."
So far. Van Aldin had found his judgment
confirmed. Knighton had proved quick, intelligent, and resourceful, and he had a distinct
charm of manner.
The secretary indicated three or four letters
placed by themselves on the top of the
desk.
"It might perhaps be as well, sir, if you
glanced at these," he suggested. "The top
one is about the Colton agreement----"
But Rufus Van Aldin held up a protesting
hand.
"I am not going to look at a durned thing
to-night," he declared. "They can all wait
till the morning. Except this one," he added, looking down at the letter he held in his
hand. And again that strange transforming
smile stole over his face.
Richard Knighton smiled sympathetically.

"Mrs. Kettering?" he murmured. "She
rang up yesterday and to-day. She seems
very anxious to see you at once, sir."
"Does she, now!"
The smile faded from the millionaire's
face. He ripped open the envelope which he
held in his hand and took out the enclosed
sheet. As he read it his face darkened, his mouth set grimly in the line which Wall
Street knew so well, and his brows knit
themselves ominously. Knighton turned
tactfully away, and went on opening letters
and sorting them. A muttered oath escaped
the millionaire, and his clenched fist hit the
table sharply.
"I'll not stand for this," he muttered to
himself. "Poor little girl, it's a good thing
she has her old father behind her."
He walked up and down the room for
some minutes, his brows drawn together in
a scowl. Knighton still bent assiduously over
the desk. Suddenly Van Aldin came to an
abrupt halt. He took up his overcoat from
the chair where he had thrown it.
"Are you going out again, sir?"
"Yes, I'm going round to see my daughter."

"If Colton's people ring up----"
"Tell them to go to the devil," said Van
Aldin.
"Very well," said the secretary unemotionally.

Van Aldin had his overcoat on by now.
Cramming his hat upon his head, he went
towards the door. He paused with his hand
upon the handle.
"You are a good fellow, Knighton," he
said. "You don't worry me when I am rattled."

Knighton smiled a little, but made no reply.

"Ruth is my only child," said Van Aldin,
"and there is no one on this earth who knows
quite what she means to me."
A faint smile irradiated his face. He
slipped his hand into his pocket.
"Care to see something, Knighton?"
He came back towards the secretary.
From his pocket he drew out a parcel carelessly
wrapped in brown paper. He tossed
off the wrapping and disclosed a big, shabby, red velvet case. In the centre of it were some
twisted initials surmounted by a crown. He
snapped the case open, and the secretary
drew in his breath sharply. Against the
slightly dingy white of the interior, the
stones glowed like blood.
"My God! sir," said Knighton. "Are
they--are they real?"
Van Aldin laughed a quiet little cackle of
amusement.
"I don't wonder at your asking that.
Amongst these rubies are the three largest in the world. Catherine of Russia wore them, Knighton. That centre one there is known
as Heart of Fire. It's perfect--not a flaw in
it.55
"But," the secretary murmured, "they
must be worth a fortune."
"Four or five hundred thousand dollars,"
said Van Aldin nonchalantly, "and that is
apart from the historical interest."
"And you carry them about—like that,
loose in your pocket ?"
Van Aldin laughed amusedly.
"I guess so. You see, they are my little
present for Ruthie."
The secretary smiled discreetly.
"I can understand now Mrs. Kettering's
anxiety over the telephone," he murmured.
But Van Aldin shook his head. The hard
look returned to his face.
"You are wrong there," he said. "She
doesn't know about these; they are my little
surprise for her."
He shut the case, and began slowly to wrap
it up again.
"It's a hard thing, Knighton," he said,
"how little one can do for those one loves.
I can buy a good portion of the earth for
Ruth, if it would be any use to her, but it
isn't. I can hang these things round her neck
and give her a moment or two's pleasure,
maybe, but——"
He shook his head.
"When a woman is not happy in her
home----"
He left the sentence unfinished. The secretary
nodded discreetly. He knew, none
better, the reputation of the Hon. Derek
Kettering. Van Aldin sighed. Slipping the
parcel back in his coat pocket, he nodded to
Knighton and left the room.
Chapter 4
In Curzon Street
the hon. mrs derek kettering lived in
Curzon Street. The butler who opened the
door recognized Rufus Van Aldin at once
and permitted himself a discreet smile of
greeting. He led the way upstairs to the big
double drawing-room on the first floor.
A woman who was sitting by the window
started up with a cry.
"Why, Dad, if that isn't too good for anything!
I've been telephoning Major Knighton
all day to try and get hold of you, but
he couldn't say for sure when you were expected
back."
Ruth Kettering was twenty-eight years of
age. Without being beautiful, or in the real
sense of the word even pretty, she was striking
looking because of her colouring. Van
Aldin had been called Carrots and Ginger in
his time, and Ruth's hair was almost pure
auburn. With it went dark eyes and very
black lashes--the effect somewhat enhanced
by art. She was tall and slender, and moved
well. At a careless glance it was the face of
a Raphael Madonna. Only if one looked
closely did one perceive the same line of jaw
and chin as in Van Aldin's face, bespeaking
the same hardness and determination. It
suited the man, but suited the woman less
well. From her childhood upward Ruth Van
Aldin had been accustomed to having her
own way, and any one who had ever stood
up against her soon realized that Rufus Van
Aldin's daughter never gave in.
"Knighton told me you'd 'phoned him,"
said Van Aldin. "I only got back from Paris
half an hour ago. What's all this about Derek?"
Ruth
Kettering flushed angrily.
"It's unspeakable. It's beyond all limits,"
she cried. "He--he doesn't seem to listen to
anything I say."
There was bewilderment as well as anger
in her voice.
"He'll listen to me," said the millionaire
grimly.
Ruth went on.
"I've hardly seen him for the last month.
He goes about everywhere with that woman."

"With what woman?"
"Mirelle. She dances at the Parthenon,
you know."
Van Aldin nodded.
"I was down at Leconbury last week. I—
I spoke to Lord Leconbury. He was awfully
sweet to me, sympathized entirely. He said
he'd give Derek a good talking to."
"Ah!" said Van Aldin.
"What do you mean by 'Ah!5, Dad?"
"Just what you think I mean, Ruthie,
Poor old Leconbury is a wash-out. Of course
he sympathized with you, of course he tried
to soothe you down. Having got his son and
heir married to the daughter of one of the
richest men in the States, he naturally
doesn't want to mess the thing up. But he's
got one foot in the grave already, every one
knows that, and anything he may say will
cut darned little ice with Derek."
"Can't you do anything. Dad?" urged
Ruth, after a minute or two.
"I might," said the millionaire. He waited
a second reflectively, and then went on.
"There are several things I might do, but
there's only one that will be any real good.
How much pluck have you got, Ruthie?"
She stared at him. He nodded back at her.
"I mean just what I say. Have you got the
^
grit to admit to all the world that you've
made a mistake. There's only one way out
of this mess, Ruthie. Cut your losses and
start afresh."
"You mean----"
"Divorce."
"Divorce!"
Van Aldin smiled drily.
"You say that word, Ruth, as though
you'd never heard it before. And yet your
friends are doing it all round you every day."
"Oh! I know that. But----"
She stopped, biting her lip. Her father
nodded comprehendingly.
"I know, Ruth. You're like me, you can't
bear to let go. But I've learnt, and you've
got to learn, that there are times when it's
the only way. I might find ways of whistling
Derek back to you, but it would all come to
the same in the end. He's no good, Ruth; he's
rotten through and through. And mind you, I blame myself for ever letting you marry
him. But you were kind of set on having
him, and he seemed in earnest about turning
over a new leaf--and well, I'd crossed you
once, honey ..."
He did not look at her as he said the last
words. Had he done so, he might have seen
the swift colour that came up in her face.
"You did," she said in a hard voice.
"I was too durned soft hearted to do it a
second time. I can't tell you how I wish I
had, though. You've led a poor kind of life
for the last few years, Ruth."
"It has not been very—agreeable," agreed
Mrs. Kettering.
"That's why I say to you that this thing
has got to stop!" He brought his hand down
with a bang on the table. "You may have a
hankering after the fellow still. Cut it out.
Face facts. Derek Kettering married you for
your money. That's all there is to it. Get rid
of him, Ruth."
Ruth Kettering looked down at the
ground for some moments, then she said,
without raising her head:
"Supposing he doesn't consent?"
Van Aldin looked at her in astonishment.
"He won't have a say in the matter."
She flushed and bit her lip.
"No—no—of course not. I only
meant——"
She stopped. Her father eyed her keenly.
"What did you mean?"
"I meant——" She paused, choosing her
words carefully. "He mayn't take it lying
down."
The millionaire's chin shot out grimly.
"You mean he'll fight the case? Let him!
But, as a matter of fact, you're wrong. He
won't fight. Any solicitor he consults will
tell him he hasn't a leg to stand upon."
"You don't think"--she hesitated--"I
mean--out of sheer spite against me--he
might, try to make it awkward?"
Her father looked at her in some astonishment.

"Fight the case, you mean?"
He shook his head.
"Very unlikely. You see, he would have
to have something to go upon."
Mrs. Kettering did not answer. Van Aldin
looked at her sharply.
"Come, Ruth, out with it. There's something
troubling you--what is it?"
"Nothing, nothing at all."
But her voice was unconvincing.
"You are dreading the publicity, eh? Is
that it? You leave it to me. I'll put the whole
thing through so smoothly that there will be
no fuss at all."
"Very well. Dad, if you really think it's
the best thing to be done."
"Got a fancy for the fellow still, Ruth? Is
that it?"
"No."
The word came with no uncertain emphasis. Van Aldin seemed satisfied. He patted
his daughter on the shoulder.
"It will be all right, little girl. Don't you
worry any. Now let's forget all about this. I
have brought you a present from Paris."
"For me? Something very nice?"
"I hope you'll think so," said Van Aldin, smiling.
He took the parcel from his coat pocket
and handed it to her. She unwrapped it
eagerly, and snapped open the case. A longdrawn
"Oh!" came from her lips. Ruth Kettering
loved jewels--always had done so.
"Dad, how--how wonderful!"
"Rather in a class by themselves, aren't
they?" said the millionaire, with satisfaction.
"You like them, eh?"
"Like them? Dad, they're unique. How
did you get hold of them?"
Van Aldin smiled.
"Ah! that's my secret. They had to be
bought privately, of course. They are rather
well known. See that big stone in the middle?
You have heard of it, maybe, that's the historic
'Heart of Fire.'"
"Heart of Fire!" repeated Mrs. Kettering. *
She had taken the stones from the case
and was holding them against her breast.
The millionaire watched her. He was thinking of the series of women who had worn the
jewels. The heartaches, the despairs, the
jealousies. "Heart of Fire," like all famous
stones, had left behind it a trail of tragedy
and violence. Held in Ruth Kettering's assured
hand, it seemed to lose its potency of
evil. With her cool, equable poise, this
woman of the western world seemed a negation
to tragedy or heart-burnings. Ruth
returned the stones to their case, then, jumping
up, she flung her arms round her father's
neck.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you. Dad!
They are wonderful! You do give me the
most marvelous presents always."
"That's all right," said Van Aldin, patting
her shoulder. "You are all I have, you know,
Ruthie."
"You will stay to dinner, won't you, father?"

"I don't think so. You were going out,
weren't you?"
"Yes, but I can easily put that off. Nothing
very exciting."
"No," said Van Aldin. "Keep your engagement.
I have got a good deal to attend
to. See you to-morrow, my dear. Perhaps if
I 'phone you, we can meet at Galbraiths'?"
Messrs. Galbraith, Galbraith, Cuthbert-
son, & Galbraith were Van Aldin's London
solicitors.
"Very well. Dad." She hesitated. "I suppose
it--this--won't keep me from going to
the Riviera?"
"When are you off?"
"On the fourteenth."
"Oh, that will be all right. These things
take a long time to mature. By the way, Ruth, I shouldn't take those rubies abroad
if I were you. Leave them at the bank."
Mrs. Kettering nodded.
"We don't want to have you robbed and
murdered for the sake of 'Heart of Fire,'"
said the millionaire jocosely.
"And yet you carried it about in your
pocket loose," retorted his daughter, smiling.

"Yes----"
Something, some hesitation, caught her
attention.
"What is it. Dad?"
"Nothing." He smiled. "Thinking of a
little adventure of mine in Paris."
"An adventure?"
"Yes, the night I bought these things."
He made a gesture towards the jewel case.
"Oh, do tell me."
"Nothing to tell, Ruthie. Some apache fellows got a bit fresh and I shot at them and
they got off. That's all."
She looked at him with some pride.
"You're a tough proposition. Dad."
"You bet I am, Ruthie."
He kissed her affectionately and departed.
On arriving back at the Savoy, he gave a curt
order to Knighton.
"Get hold of a man called Goby; you'll
find his address in my private book. He's to
be here to-morrow morning at half-past
nine."
"Yes, sir."
"I also want to see Mr. Kettering. Run
him to earth for me if you can. Try his
Club--at any rate, get hold of him somehow, and arrange for me to see him here to-morrow
morning. Better make it latish, about
twelve. His sort aren't early risers."
The secretary nodded in comprehension
of these instructions. Van Aldin gave himself
into the hands of his valet. His bath was
prepared, and as he lay luxuriating in the
hot water, his mind went back over the conversation
with his daughter. On the whole
he was well satisfied. His keen mind had long
since accepted the fact that divorce was the
only possible way out. Ruth had agreed to
the proposed solution with more readiness
than he had hoped for. Yet, in spite of her
acquiescence, he was left with a vague sense
of uneasiness. Something about her manner, m
he felt, had not been quite natural. He I
frowned to himself.
"Maybe I'm fanciful," he muttered, "and
yet—I bet there's something she has not told
K &
me."
Chapter 5
A Useful Gentleman
rufus van aldin had just finished the
sparse breakfast of coffee and dry toast, which was all he ever allowed himself 3 when
Knighton entered the room.
"Mr. Goby is below, sir, waiting to see
you."
The millionaire glanced at the clock. It
was just half-past nine.
"All right," he said curtly. "He can come
up."
A minute or two later, Mr. Goby entered
the room. He was a small, elderly man, shabbily
dressed, with eyes that looked carefully
all round the room, and never at the person
he was addressing.
"Good morning. Goby," said the millionaire.
"Take a chair."
"Thank you, Mr. Van Aldin."
Mr. Goby sat down with his hands on his
knees, and gazed earnestly at the radiator.
"I have got a job for you." "Yes, Mr. Van Aldin?"
"My daughter is married to the Hon. Derek
Kettering, as you may perhaps know."
Mr. Goby transferred his gaze from the
radiator to the left-hand drawer of the desk, and permitted a deprecating smile to pass
over his face. Mr. Goby knew a great many
things, but he always hated to admit the fact.
"By my advice, she is about to file a pe~ tition for divorce. That, of course, is a solicitor's
business. But, for private reasons, I
want the fullest and most complete information."

Mr. Goby looked at the cornice and murmured:

^ "About Mr. Kettering?"
"About Mr. Kettering." ^y good, sir."
by rose to his feet.
^ you have it ready for me?" ^urry, sir?"
^rry," said the million-
-.tandingly at the
Jlock this afternoon,
"Excellent," approved the other. "Good
morning. Goby."
"Good morning, Mr. Van Aldin."
"That's a very useful man," said the millionaire
as Goby went out and his secretary
came in. "In his own line he's a specialist."
"What is his line?"
"Information. Give him twenty-four
hours and he would lay the private life of the
Archbishop of Canterbury bare for you."
"A useful sort of chap," said Knighton, with a smile.
"He has been useful to me once or twice,"
said Van Aldin. "Now then, Knighton, I'm
ready for work."
The next few hours saw a vast quantity of
business rapidly transacted. It was half-past
twelve when the telephone bell rang, and
Mr. Van Aldin was informed that Mr. Kettering
had called. Knighton looked at Van
Aldin, and interpreted his brief nod.
"Ask Mr. Kettering to come up, please."
The secretary gathered up his papers and
departed. He and the visitor passed each
other in the doorway, and Derek Kettering
stood aside to let the other go out. Then he
came in, shutting the door behind him.
"Good morning, sir. You are very anxious
^ see me, I hear. "
BE
The lazy voice with its slightly ironic inflection
roused memories in Van Aldin.
There was charm in it--there had always
been charm in it. He looked piercingly at his
son-in-law. Derek Kettering was thirty-four, lean of build, with a dark, narrow face, which had even now something indescribabiy
boyish in it.
"Come in," said Van Aldin curtly. "Sit
down."
Kettering flung himself lightly into an
arm-chair. He looked at his father-in-law
with a kind of tolerant amusement.
"Not seen you for a long time, sir," he
remarked pleasantly. "About two years, I
should say. Seen Ruth yet?"
"I saw her last night," said Van Aldin.
"Looking very fit, isn't she?" said the
other lightly.
"I didn't know you had had much opportunity
of judging," said Van Aldin drily.
Derek Kettering raised his eyebrows.
"Oh, we sometimes meet at the same night
club, you know," he said airily.
"I am not going to beat about the bush,"
Van Aldin said curtly. "I have advised Ruth
to file a petition for divorce."
Derek Kettering seemed unmoved.
"How drastic!" he murmured. "Do you
mind if I smoke, sir?"
He lit a cigarette, and puffed out a cloud
of smoke as he added nonchalantly:
"And what did Ruth say?"
"Ruth proposes to take my advice," said
her father.
"Does she really?"
"Is that all you have got to say?" demanded
Van Aldin sharply.
Kettering flicked his ash into the grate.
"I think, you know," he said, with a detached
air, "that she's making a great mistake."

"From your point of view she doubtless
is," said Van Aldin grimly.
"Oh, come now," said the other; "don't
let's be personal. I really wasn't thinking of
myself at the moment. I was thinking of
Ruth. You know my poor old Governor
really can't last much longer; all the doctors
say so. Ruth had better give it a couple more
years, then I shall be Lord Leconbury, and
she can be chatelaine of Leconbury, which
is what she married me for."
"I won't have any of your darned impudence,"
roared Van Aldin.
Derek Kettering smiled at him quite unloved.

"I agree with you. It's an obsolete idea,"
he said. "There's nothing in a title nowadays.
Still, Leconbury is a very fine old
place, and, after all, we are one of the oldest
families in England. It will be very annoying
for Ruth if she divorces me to find me marrying
again, and some other woman queening
it at Leconbury instead of her."
"I am serious, young man," said Van Aldin.
"Oh,
so am I," said Kettering. "I am in
very low water financially; it will put me in
a nasty hole if Ruth divorces me, and, after
all, if she has stood it for ten years, why not
stand it a little longer? I give you my word
of honour that the old man can't possibly
last out another eighteen months, and, as I
said before, it's a pity Ruth shouldn't get
what she married me for."
"You suggest that my daughter married
you for your title and position?"
Derek Kettering laughed a laugh that was
not all amusement.
"You don't think it was a question of a
love match?" he asked.
"I know," said Van Aldin slowly, "that
you spoke very differently in Paris ten years
ago."
"Did I? Perhaps I did. Ruth was very
beautiful, you know--rather like an angel
or a saint, or something that had stepped
down from a niche in a church. I had fine
ideas, I remember, of turning over a new
leaf, of settling down and living up to the
highest traditions of English home-life with
a beautiful wife who loved me."
He laughed again, rather more discordantly.

"But you don't believe that, I suppose?"
he said.
"I have no doubt at all that you married
Ruth for her money," said Van Aldin unemotionally.

"And that she married me for love?"
asked the other ironically.
"Certainly," said Van Aldin.
Derek Kettering stared at him for a minute
or two, then he nodded reflectively.
"I see you believe that," he said. "So did
I at the time. I can assure you, my dear
father-in-law, I was very soon undeceived."
"I don't know what you are getting at,"
said Van Aldin, "and I don't care. You have
treated Ruth darned badly."
"Oh, I have," agreed Kettering lightly, "but she's tough, you know. She's your
daughter. Underneath the pink-and-white
softness of her she's as hard as granite. You
have always been known as a hard man, so
I have been told, but Ruth is harder than
you are. You, at any rate, love one person
better than yourself. Ruth never has and
never will."
"That is enough," said Van Aldin. "I
asked you here so that I could tell you fair
and square what I meant to do. My girl has
got to have some happiness, and remember
this, I am behind her."
Derek Kettering got up and stood by the
mantelpiece. He tossed away his cigarette.
When he spoke, his voice was very quiet.
"What exactly do you mean by that, I
wonder?" he said.
"I mean," said Van Aldin, "that you had
better not try to defend the case."
"Oh," said Kettering. "Is that a threat?"
"You can take it any way you please," said
Van Aldin.
Kettering drew a chair up to the table. He
sat down fronting the millionaire.
"And supposing," he said softly, "that,
just for argument's sake, I did defend the
case?"
Van Aldin shrugged his shoulders.
"You have not got a leg to stand upon,
you young fool. Ask your solicitors, they will
soon tell you. Your conduct has been notorious, the talk of London."
"Ruth has been kicking up a row about
Mirelle, I suppose. Very foolish of her. I
don't interfere with her friends."
"What do you mean?" said Van Aldin
sharply.
Derek Kettering laughed.
"I see you don't know everything, sir,"
he said. "You are, perhaps naturally, prejudiced."

He took up his hat and stick and moved
towards the door.
"Giving advice is not much in my line."
He delivered his final thrust. "But, in this
case, I should advise most strongly perfect
frankness between father and daughter."
He passed quickly out of the room and
shut the door behind him just as the millionaire
sprang up.
"Now, what the hell did he mean by
that?" said Van Aldin as he sank back into
his chair again.
All his uneasiness returned in full force.
There was something here that he had not
yet got to the bottom of. The telephone was by his elbow; he seized it, and asked for the
number of his daughter's house.
"Hallo! Hallo! Is that Mayfair 81907?
Mrs. Kettering in? Oh, she's out, is she?
Yes, out to lunch. What time will she be in?
You don't know? Oh, very good; no, there's
no message."
He slammed the receiver down again angrily.
At two o'clock he was pacing the floor
of his room waiting expectantly for Goby.
The latter was ushered in at ten minutes past
two.
"Well?" barked the millionaire sharply.
But the little Mr. Goby was not to be hurried.
He sat down at the table, produced a
very shabby pocketbook, and proceeded to
read from it in a monotonous voice. The
millionaire listened attentively, with an increasing
satisfaction. Goby came to a full
stop, and looked attentively at the wastepaper-basket.
"Urn!"
said Van Aldin. "That seems
pretty definite. The case will go through like
winking. The hotel evidence is all right, I
suppose?"
"Cast iron," said Mr. Goby, and looked
malevolently at a gilt armchair.
"And financially he's in very low water.
He's trying to raise a loan now, you say?
Has already raised practically all he can upon
his expectations from his father. Once the
news of the divorce gets about, he won't be |
able to raise another cent, and not only that, his obligations can be bought up and pressure
can be put upon him from that quarter. We have got him. Goby; we have got him
in a cleft stick."
He hit the table a bang with his fist. His
face was grim and triumphant.
"The information," said Mr. Goby in a
thin voice, "seems satisfactory."
"I have got to go round to Curzon Street
now," said the millionaire. "I am much
obliged to you. Goby. You are the goods all
right."
A pale smile of gratification showed itself
on the little man's face.
"Thank you, Mr. Van Aldin," he said; "I
try to do my best."
Van Aldin did not go direct to Curzon
Street. He went first to the City, where he
had two interviews which added to his satisfaction.
From there he took the tube to Down Street. As he was walking along Cur- zon Street, a figure came out of No. 160, and turned up the street towards him, so that
they passed each other on the pavement. For a moment, the millionaire had fancied it "light be Derek Kettering himself; the height and build were not unlike. But as
they came face to face, he saw that the man
was a stranger to him. At least--no, not a
stranger; his face awoke some call of recognition
in the millionaire's mind, and it was
associated definitely with something unpleasant.
He cudgelled his brains in vain, but the
thing eluded him. He went on, shaking his
head irritably. He hated to be baffled.
Ruth Kettering was clearly expecting him.
She ran to him and kissed him when he entered.

"Well, Dad, how are things going?"
"Very well," said Van Aldin; "but I have
got a word or two to say to you, Ruth."
Almost insensibly he felt the change in
her, something shrewd and watchful replaced
the impulsiveness of her greeting. She
sat down in a big armchair.
"Well, Dad?" she asked. "What is it?"
"I saw your husband this morning," said
Van Aldin.
"You saw Derek?"
"I did. He said a lot of things, most of
which were darned cheek. Just as he was
leaving, he said something that I didn't understand.
He advised me to be sure that there
was perfect frankness between father and
daughter. What did he mean by that,
Ruthie?"
Mrs. Kettering moved a little in her chair.
"rr
- «I_I don't know. Dad. How should I?"
"Of course you know," said Van Aldin.
"He said something else, about his having
his friends and not interfering with yours. What did he mean by that?"
"I don't know," said Ruth Kettering
again.
Van Aldin sat down. His mouth set itself
in a grim line.
"See here, Ruth. I am not going into this
with my eyes closed. I am not at all sure that that husband of yours doesn't mean to make
trouble. Now, he can't do it, I am sure of
that. I have got the means to silence him, to
shut his mouth for good and all, but I have
got to know if there's any need to use those
means. What did he mean by your having
your own friends?"
Mrs. Kettering shrugged her shoulders.
"I have got lots of friends," she said uncertainly.
"I don't know what he meant, I
am sure."
"You do," said Van Aldin.
He was speaking now as he might have
spoken to a business adversary.
"I will put it plainer. Who is the man?"
"What man?"
"The man. That's what Derek was driving ^. Some special man who is a friend of
^.- * 11
yours. You needn't worry, honey, I know
there is nothing in it, but we have got to look
at everything as it might appear to the Court.
They can twist these things about a good
deal, you know. I want to know who the
man is, and just how friendly you have been
with him."
Ruth didn't answer. Her hands were
kneading themselves together in intense nervous
absorption.
"Come, honey," said Van Aldin in a softer
voice. "Don't be afraid of your old Dad. I
was not too harsh, was I, even that time in
Paris?--By gosh'"
He stopped, thunderstruck.
"That's who it was," he murmured to
himself. "I thought I knew his face."
"What are you talking about. Dad? I don't
understand."
The millionaire strode across to her and
took her firmly by the wrist.
"See here, Ruth, have you been seeing
that fellow again?"
"What fellow?"
"The one we had all that fuss about years
ago. You know who I mean well enough."
"You mean"--she hesitated--"you mean
the Comte de la Roche?"
"Comte de la Roche!" snorted Van Aldin. |
<<I told you at the time that the man was no
better than a swindler. You had entangled
yourself with him then very deeply, but I
got you out of his clutches."
"Yes, you did," said Ruth bitterly. "And
I married Derek Kettering."
"You wanted to," said the millionaire
sharply.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"And now," said Van Aldin slowly, "you
have been seeing him again--after all I told
you. He has been in the house to-day. I met
him outside, and couldn't place him for the
moment."
Ruth Kettering had recovered her composure.

"I want to tell you one thing. Dad; you
are wrong about Armand--the Comte de la
Roche, I mean. Oh, I know there were several
regrettable incidents in his youth--he
has told me about them; but--well, he has
cared for me always. It broke his heart when
you parted us in Paris, and now----"
She was interrupted by the snort of indignation
her father gave.
"So you fell for that stuff, did you? You, a daughter of mine! My God!"
He threw up his hands.
"That women can be such darned fools!"
Af\
mured. "I shall put all the passion of the
desert into it. I shall dance hung over with
jewels--ahl and, by the way, mon ami, there
is a pearl that I saw yesterday in Bond
Street--a black pearl."
She paused, looking at him invitingly.
"My dear girl," said Kettering, "it's no
use talking of black pearls to me. At the
present minute, as far as I am concerned, the fat is in the fire."
She was quick to respond to his tone. She
sat up, her big black eyes widening.
"What is that you say, Dereek? What has
happened?"
"My esteemed father-in-law," said Kettering, "is preparing to go off the deep-end."
"Eh?"
"In other words, he wants Ruth to divorce
me."
"How stupid!" said Mirelle. "Why should
she want to divorce you?"
Derek Kettering grinned.
"Mainly because of you, cherie!" he said.
Mirelle shrugged her shoulders.
"That is foolish," she observed in a matter-of-fact
voice.
"Very foolish," agreed Derek.
"What are you going to do about it?" demanded
Mirelle.
52
^My dear girl, what can 1 do? On the one
side, the man with unlimited money; on the
other side, the man with unlimited debts.
There is no question as to who will come out
on top."
"They are extraordinary, these Americans,"
commented Mirelle. "It is not as
though your wife were fond of you."
"Well," said Derek, "what are we going
to do about it?"
She looked at him inquiringly. He came
over and took both her hands in his.
"Are you going to stick to me?"
"What do you mean? After——"
"Yes," said Kettering. "After, when the
creditors come down like wolves on the fold.
I am damned fond of you, Mirelle; are you
going to let me down?"
She pulled her hands away from him.
"You know I adore you, Dereek."
He caught the note of evasion in her voice.
"So that's that, is it? The rats will leave
the sinking ship."
"Ah, Dereek!"
"Out with it," he said violently. "You will
fling me over; is that it?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"I am fond of you, mon ami—indeed I am
53
fond of you. You are very charming—un
beau gargon, but ce n'est pas pratique."
"You are a rich man's luxury, eh? Is that
it?"
"If you like to put it that way."
She leaned back on the cushions, her head
flung back.
"All the same, I am fond of you, Dereek."
He went over to the window and stood
there some time looking out, with his back
to her. Presently the dancer raised herself
on her elbow and stared at him curiously.
"What are you thinking of, mon ami?'9
He grinned at her over his shoulder, a
curious grin, that made her vaguely uneasy.
"As it happened, I was thinking of a
woman, my dear."
"A woman, eh?"
Mirelle pounced on something that she
could understand.
"You are thinking of some other woman,
is that it?" I
"Oh, you needn't worry, it is purely a
fancy portrait. 'Portrait of a lady with grey
eyes.5"
Mirelle said sharply, "When did you meet
her?"
Derek Kettering laughed, and his laughter
had a mocking, ironical sound. |
"I ran into the lady in the corridor of the
Savoy Hotel."
"Well! what did she say?"
"As far as I can remember, I said, <I beg
your pardon,5 and she said, 'It doesn't matter.? or words to that effect."
"And then?" persisted the dancer.
Kettering shrugged his shoulders.
"And then--nothing. That was the end
of the incident."
"I don't understand a word of what you are talking about," declared the dancer.
"Portrait of a lady with grey eyes," murmured
Derek reflectively. "Just as well I am
never likely to meet her again."
"Why?"
"She might bring me bad luck. Women
do."
Mirelle slipped quickly from her couch, and came across to him, laying one long, snake-like arm round his neck.
"You are foolish, Dereek," she murmured.
"You are very foolish. You are beau gargon, and I adore you, but I am not made
to be poor--no, decidedly I am not made to be poor. Now listen to me; everything is very ^mple. You must make it up with your
wife."
"I am afraid that's not going to be actually
in the sphere of practical politics," said Derek
drily.
"How do you say? I do not understand."
"Van Aldin, my dear, is not taking any.
He is the kind of man who makes up his
mind and sticks to it."
"I have heard of him," nodded the dancer.
"He is very rich, is he not? Almost the richest
man in America. A few days ago, in Paris, he bought the most wonderful ruby in the
world--'Heart of Fire5 it is called."
Kettering did not answer. The dancer
went on musingly:
"It is a wonderful stone--a stone that
should belong to a woman like me. I love
jewels, Dereek, they say something to me.
Ah! to wear a ruby like 'Heart of Fire.""
She gave a little sigh, and then became
practical once more.
"You don't understand these thing. Dereek,
you are only a man. Van Aldin will
give these rubies to his daughter, I suppose.
Is she his only child?"
"Yes."
"Then when he dies, she will inherit all
his money. She will be a rich woman."
"She is a rich woman already," said Kettering
drily. "He settled a couple of millions
on her at her marriage."
"A couple of million! But that is immense.
And if she died suddenly, eh? That would
all come to you?"
"As things stand at present," said Kettering
slowly, "it would. As far as I know
she has not made a will."
"Mon Dieu!" said the dancer. "If she were
to die, what a solution that would be."
There was a moment's pause, and then
Derek Kettering laughed outright.
"I like your simple, practical mind, Mirelle,
but I am afraid what you desire won't
come to pass. My wife is an extremely
healthy person."
"Eh, bien!" said Mirelle; "there are accidents."

He looked at her sharply but did not answer.

She went on.
"But you are right, mon ami, we must not
dwell on possibilities. See now, my little Dereek,
there must be no more talk of this
divorce. Your wife must give up the idea."
"And if she won't?"
The dancer's eyes widened to slits.
"I think she will, my friend. She is one
of those who would not like the publicity. There are one or two pretty stories that she
would not like her friends to read in the
newspapers."
"What do you mean?" asked Kettering
sharply.
Mirelle laughed, her head thrown back.
"Parbleu! I mean the gentleman who calls
himself the Comte de la Roche. I know all
about him. I am Parisienne, you remember.
He was her lover before she married you, was he not?"
Kettering took her sharply by the shoulders.

"That is a damned lie," he said, "and
please remember that, after all, you are
speaking of my wife."
Mirelle was a little sobered.
"You are extraordinary, you English," she
complained. "All the same, I dare say that
you may be right. The Americans are so
cold, are they not? But you will permit me
to say, mon ami, that she was in love with him before she married you, and her father
stepped in and sent the Comte about his
business. And the little Mademoiselle, she
wept many tears! But she obeyed. Still, you
must know as well as I do, Dereek, that it
is a very different story now. She sees him
nearly every day, and on the fourteenth she
goes to Paris to meet him."
"How do you know all this?" demanded
Kettering.
"Me? I have friends in Paris, my dear Dereek,
who know the Comte intimately. It is
all arranged. She is going to the Riviera, so
she says, but in reality the Comte meets her
in Paris and--who knows! Yes, yes, you can
take my word for it, it is all arranged."
Derek Kettering stood motionless.
"You see," purred the dancer, "if you are
clever, you have her in the hollow of your
hand. You can make things very awkward
for her."
"Oh, for God's sake be quiet," cried Kettering.
"Shut your cursed mouth!"
Mirelle flung herself down again on the
divan with a laugh. Kettering caught up his
hat and coat and left the flat, banging the
door violently. And still the dancer sat on
the divan and laughed softly to herself. She
was not displeased with her work.
Chapter 7
Letters
"mrs. samuel harfield presents her
compliments to Miss Katherine Grey
and wishes to point out that under the
circumstances Miss Grey may not be
aware----"
Mrs. Harfield, having written so far fluently, came to a dead stop, held up by what has
proved an insuperable difficulty to many other
people--namely, the difficulty of expressing
oneself fluently in the third person.
After a minute or two of hesitation, Mrs.
Harfield tore up the sheet of notepaper and
started afresh.
"dear Miss grey,--Whilst fully appreciating
the adequate way you discharged
your duties to my Cousin Emma (whose
recent death has indeed been a severe
blow to us all), I cannot but feel----"
Again Mrs. Harfield came to a stop. Once more the letter was consigned to the wastepaper-basket.
It was not until four false
starts had been made that Mrs. Harfield at
last produced an epistle that satisfied her. It
was duly sealed and stamped and addressed
to Miss Katherine Grey, Little Crampton, St. Mary Mead, Kent, and it lay beside that
lady's plate on the following morning at
breakfast-time in company with a more important
looking communication in a long
blue envelope.
Katherine Grey opened Mrs. Harfield5 s
letter first. The finished production ran as
follows:
"dear Miss grey,--My husband and I
wish to express our thanks to you for
your services to my poor cousin, Emma.
Her death has been a great blow to us, though we were, of course, aware that
her mind has been failing for some time
past. I understand that her latter testamentary
dispositions have been of a most peculiar character, and they would
not hold good, of course, in any court of
law. I have no doubt that, with your
usual good sense, you have already real- ^ed this fact. If these matters can be arranged privately it is always so much
better, my husband says. We shall be
pleased to recommend you most highly
for a similar post and hope that you will
also accept a small present. Believe me,
dear Miss Grey, yours cordially,
mary anne harfield."
Katherine Grey read the letter through, smiled a little, and read it a second time. Her
face as she laid the letter down after the second
reading was distinctly amused. Then she
took up the second letter. After one brief
perusal she laid it down and stared very
straight in front of her. This time she did
not smile. Indeed, it would have been hard
for any one watching her to guess what emotions
lay behind that quiet, reflective gaze.
Katherine Grey was thirty-three. She
came of good family, but her father had lost
all his money, and Katherine had had to
work for her living from an early age. She
had been just twenty-three when she had
come to old Mrs. Harfield as companion.
It was generally recognized that old Mrs.
Harfield was "difficult." Companions came
and went with startling rapidity. They arrived
full of hope and they usually left in
tears. But from the moment Katherine Grey
set foot in Little Crampton, ten years ago, perfect peace had reigned. No one knows
how these things come about. Snake-charmers, they say, are born, not made. Katherine
Grey was born with the power of managing
old ladies, dogs, and small boys, and she did
it without any apparent sense of strain.
At twenty-three she had been a quiet girl
with beautiful eyes. At thirty-three she was
a quiet woman, with those same grey eyes, shining steadily out on the world with a kind
of happy serenity that nothing could shake.
Moreover, she had been born with, and still
possessed, a sense of humour.
As she sat at the breakfast-table, staring
in front of her, there was a ring at the bell, accompanied by a very energetic rat-a-tat-tat
at the knocker. In another minute the little
maid-servant opened the door and announced
rather breathlessly:
"Dr. Harrison."
The big, middle-aged doctor came bussing
in with the energy and breeziness that
had been foreshadowed by his onslaught on
the knocker.
"Good morning. Miss Grey."
"Good morning. Dr. Harrison." ^ "I dropped in early," began the doctor,
^ case you should have heard from one of
those Harfield cousins. Mrs. Samuel, she
calls herself--a perfectly poisonous person. '
Without a word, Katherine picked up Mrs. Harfield5 s letter from the table and
gave it to him. With a good deal of amusement
she watched his perusal of it, the drawing
together of the bushy eyebrows, the
snorts and grunts of violent disapproval. He
dashed it down again on the table.
"Perfectly monstrous," he fumed. "Don't
you let it worry you, my dear. They're talking
through their hat. Mrs. Harfield's intellect
was as good as yours or mine, and you
won't get any one to say the contrary. They
wouldn't have a leg to stand upon, and they
know it. All that talk of taking it into court
is pure bluff. Hence this attempt to get
round you in a hole-and-corner way. And
look here, my dear, don't let them get round
you with soft soap either. Don't get fancying
it's your duty to hand over the cash, or any
tomfoolery of conscientious scruples."
"I'm afraid it hasn't occurred to me to
have scruples," said Katherine. "All these
people are distant relatives of Mrs. Harfield's
husband, and they never came near her or
took any notice of her in her lifetime."
"You're a sensible woman," said the doctor.
"I know, none better, that you've had
a hard life of it for the last ten years. You're
fully entitled to enjoy the old lady's savings, such as they were."
Katherine smiled thoughtfully.
"Such as they were," she repeated.
"You've no idea of the amount, doctor?"
"Well--enough to bring in five hundred
a year or so, I suppose."
Katherine nodded.
"That's what I thought," she said. "Now
read this."
She handed him the letter she had taken
from the long blue envelope. The doctor
read and uttered an exclamation of utter astonishment.

"Impossible," he muttered. "Impossible."

"She was one of the original shareholders
in Mortaulds. Forty years ago she must have
had an income of eight or ten thousand a
year. She has never, I am sure, spent more
than four hundred a year. She was always
terribly careful about money. I always believed
that she was obliged to be careful about every penny."
"And all the time the income has accumulated
at compound interest. My dear,
You're going to be a very rich woman."
Katherine Grey nodded.
"Yes," she said, "I am."
She spoke in a detached, impersonal tone,
as though she were looking at the situation
from outside.
"Well," said the doctor, preparing to depart, "you have all my congratulations." He
flicked Mrs. Samuel Harfield's letter with
his thumb. "Don't worry about that woman
and her odious letter."
"It really isn't an odious letter," said Miss
Grey tolerantly. "Under the circumstances, I think it's really quite a natural thing to
do."
"I have the gravest suspicions of you
sometimes," said the doctor.
"Why?"
"The things that you find perfectly natural."

Katherine Grey laughed.
Doctor Harrison retailed the great news
to his wife at lunch-time. She was very excited
about it.
"Fancy old Mrs. Harfield--with all that
money. I'm glad she left it to Katherine
Grey. That girl's a saint."
The doctor made a wry face.
"Saints I always imagine must have been
difficult people. Katherine Grey is too human
for a saint."
"She's a saint with a sense of humour,"
said the doctor's wife, twinkling. "And, though I don't suppose you've ever noticed
the fact, she's extremely good looking."
"Katherine Grey?" The doctor was honestly
surprised. "She's got very nice eyes, I
know."
"Oh, you men!" cried his wife. "Blind as
bats. Katherine's got all the makings of a
beauty in her. All she wants is clothes!"
"Clothes? What's wrong with her clothes?
She always looks very nice."
Mrs. Harrison gave an exasperated sigh, and the doctor rose preparatory to starting
on his rounds.
"You might look in on her, Polly," he
suggested.
"I'm going to," said Mrs. Harrison
promptly.
She made her call about three o'clock.
"My dear, I'm so glad," she said warmly, as she squeezed Katherine's hand. "And ^ery one in the village will be glad too."
"It's very nice of you to come and tell me," ^aid Katherine. "I hoped you would come ^ because I wanted to ask about Johnnie."
"Oh! Johnnie. Well----"
Johnnie was Mrs. Harrison's youngest s01!. In another minute she was off, retailing
a long history in which Johnnie's adenoids
and tonsils bulked largely. Katherine Its' tened sympathetically. Habits die hard. Listening
had been her portion for ten years
now. "My dear, I wonder if I ever told you
about that naval ball at Portsmouth? When
Lord Charles admired my gown?" And composedly,
kindly, Katherine would reply: "I
rather think you have, Mrs. Harfield, but
I've forgotten about it. Won't you tell it me
again?" And then the old lady would start
off full swing, with numerous details. And
half of Katherine's mind would be listening, saying the right things mechanically when
the old lady paused. . . .
Now, with that same curious feeling of
duality to which she was accustomed, she
listened to Mrs. Harrison.
At the end of half an hour, the latter recalled
herself suddenly.
"I've been talking about myself all this
time," she exclaimed. "And I came here to
talk about you and your plans."
"I don't know that I've got any yet."
"My dear--you're not going to stay on here."
Katherine smiled at the horror in the other's
tone.
"No; I think I want to travel. I've never
seen much of the world, you know."
"I should think not. It must have been an
awful life for you cooped up here all these
years."
"I don't know," said Katherine. "It gave
me a lot of freedom."
She caught the other's gasp, and reddened
a little.
"It must sound foolish--saying that. Of
course, I hadn't much freedom in the downright
physical sense----"
"I should think not," breathed Mrs. Harrison, remembering that Katherine had seldom
had that useful thing as a "day off."
"But, in a way, being tied physically
gives you lots of scope mentally. You're always
free to think. I've had a lovely feeling
always of mental freedom."
Mrs. Harrison shook her head.
"I can't understand that."
"Oh! you would if you'd been in my place. ^ut, all the same, I feel I want a change. I
Want--well, I want things to happen. Oh! ^t to me--I don't mean that. But to be in ^e midst of things, exciting things--even if 1 tn only the looker-on. You know, things ^°n't happen in St. Mary Mead."
"They don't indeed," said Mrs. Harrison,
with fervour.
"I shall go to London first," said Katherine.
"I have to see the solicitors, anyway.
After that, I shall go abroad, I think." |
"Very nice."
"But, of course, first of all----"
"Yes?"
"I must get some clothes."
"Exactly what I said to Arthur this morning,"
cried the doctor's wife. "You know, Katherine, you could look possibly positively
beautiful if you tried."
Miss Grey laughed unaffectedly.
"Oh' I don't think you could ever make
a beauty out of me," she said sincerely. "But
I shall enjoy having some really good clothes.
I'm afraid I'm talking about myself an awful
lot."
Mrs. Harrison looked at her shrewdly.
"It must be quite a novel experience for
you," she said drily.
Katherine went to say good-bye to old
Miss Viner before leaving the village. Miss
Viner was two years older than Mrs. Harfield,
and her mind was mainly taken up with |
her own success in outliving her dead friend.
"You wouldn't have thought I'd have outlasted
Jane Harfield, would you?" she demanded triumphantly of Katherine. "We were at school together, she and I. And here
we are, she taken, and I left. Who would
have thought it?"
"You've always eaten brown bread for
supper, haven't you?" murmured Katherine
mechanically.
"Fancy your remembering that, my dear.
Yes; if Jane Harfield had had a slice of brown
bread every evening and taken a little stimulant
with her meals she might be here today."

The old lady paused, nodding her head
triumphantly, then added in sudden remembrance:

"And so you've come into a lot of money, I hear? Well, well. Take care of it. And
you're going up to London to have a good
time? Don't think you'll get married, though, my dear, because you won't. You're
not the kind to attract the men. And, besides,
you're getting on. How old are you
now?"
"Thirty-three," Katherine told her.
"Well," remarked Miss Viner doubtfully, 'that's not so very bad. You've lost your first freshness, of course."
"I'm afraid so," said Katherine, much en- ^rtained.
"But you're a very nice girl," said Miss
Viner kindly. "And I'm sure there's many a
man might do worse than take you for a wife
instead of one of these flibbertigibbets running
about nowadays showing more of their
legs than the Creator ever intended them to.
Good-bye, my dear, and I hope you'll enjoy
yourself, but things are seldom what they
seem in this life."
Heartened by these prophecies, Katherine
took her departure. Half the village came to
see her off at the station, including the little
maid of all work, Alice, who brought a stiff
wired nosegay and cried openly.
"There ain't a many like her," sobbed Alice
when the train had finally departed. "I'm
sure when Charlie went back on me with that
girl from the Dairy, nobody could have been
kinder than Miss Grey was, and though particular
about the brasses and the dust, she
was always one to notice when you'd give a
thing an extra rub. Cut myself in little pieces
for her, I would, any day. A real lady, that's
what I call her."
Such was Katherine's departure from St.
Mary Mead.
Chapter 8
Lady Tamplin Writes a Letter
"well," said Lady Tamplin, "well."
She laid down the continental Daily Mail and stared out across the blue waters of the
Mediterranean. A branch of golden mimosa, hanging just above her head, made an effective
frame for a very charming picture. A
golden-haired, blue-eyed lady in a very becoming
negligee. That the golden hair owed
something to art, as did the pink-and-white
complexion, was undeniable, but the blue of
the eyes was Nature's gift, and at forty-four
Lady Tamplin could still rank as a beauty.
Charming as she looked. Lady Tamplin
was, for once, not thinking of herself. That ^ to say, she was not thinking of her appearance.
She was intent on graver matters.
Lady Tamplin was a well-known figure
°n the Riviera, and her parties at the Villa Marguerite were justly celebrated. She was a Woman of considerable experience, and had
had four husbands. The first had been
merely an indiscretion, and so was seldom
referred to by the lady. He had had the good
sense to die with commendable promptitude, and his widow thereupon espoused a
rich manufacturer of buttons. He too had
departed for another sphere after three years
of married life--it was said after a congenial
evening with some boon companions. After
him came Viscount Tamplin, who had
placed Rosalie securely on those heights
where she wished to tread. She had retained
her title when she married for a fourth time.
This fourth venture had been undertaken for
pure pleasure. Mr. Charles Evans, an extremely
good-looking young man of twentyseven,
with delightful manners, a keen love
of sport, and an appreciation of this world's
goods, had no money of his own whatsoever.
Lady Tamplin was very pleased and satisfied
with life generally, but she had occasional
faint preoccupations about money.
The button manufacturer had left his widow
a considerable fortune, but, as Lady Tamplin
was wont to say, "what with one thing
and another----" (one thing being the depreciation
of stocks owing to the War, and
the other the extravagances of the late Lord
TarnDlin"). She was still comfortably off. But
to be merely comfortably off is hardly satisfactory
to one of Rosalie Tamplin's temperament.

So, on this particular January morning, she opened her blue eyes extremely wide as
she read a certain item of news and uttered
that noncommittal monosyllable "Well."
The only other occupant of the balcony was
her daughter, the Hon. Lenox Tamplin. A
daughter such as Lenox was a sad thorn in
Lady Tamplin's side, a girl with no kind of
tact, who actually looked older than her age, and whose peculiar sardonic form of humour
was, to say the least of it, uncomfortable.
"Darling," said Lady Tamplin, "just
fancy."
"What is it?"
Lady Tamplin picked up the Daily Mail, handed it to her daughter, and indicated
with an agitated forefinger the paragraph of interest.
Lenox read it without any of the signs of agitation shown by her mother. She handed back the paper.
"What about it?" she asked. "It is the sort
°f thing that is always happening. Cheeseparing
old women are always dying in vilbges
and leaving fortunes of millions to their bumble companions."
"Yes, dear, I know," said her mother,
"and I dare say the fortune is not anything
like as large as they say it is; newspapers are
so inaccurate. But even if you cut it down
by half----"
"Well," said Lenox, "it has not been left
to us."
"Not exactly, dear," said Lady Tamplin;
"but this girl, this Katherine Grey, is actually
a cousin of mine. One of the Worcestershire
Greys, the Edgeworth lot. My very
own cousin! Fancy!"
"Ah-ha," said Lenox.
"And I was wondering----" said her
mother.
"What there was in it for us," finished
Lenox, with that sideways smile that her
mother always found difficult to understand.
"Oh, darling," said Lady Tamplin, on a
faint note of reproach.
It was very faint, because Rosalie Tamplin
was used to her daughter's outspokenness
and to what she called Lenox's uncomfortable
way of putting things.
"I was wondering," said Lady Tamplin? again drawing her artistically pencilled
brows together, "whether--oh, good morning,
Chubby darling; are you going to play
tennis? How nice!"
Chubby, thus addressed, smiled kindly at her, remarked perfunctorily, "How topping
you look in that peach-coloured thing," and
drifted past them and down the steps.
"The dear thing," said Lady Tamplin, looking affectionately after her husband.
"Let me see, what was I saying? Ah!" She
switched her mind back to business once
more. "I was wondering----"
"Oh, for God's sake get on with it. That
is the third time you have said that."
"Well, dear," said Lady Tamplin, "I was
thinking that if would be very nice if I wrote
to dear Katherine and suggested that she
should pay us a little visit out here. Naturally, she is quite out of touch with Society.
It would be nicer for her to be launched by
one of her own people. An advantage for her
and an advantage for us."
"How much do you think you would get
her to cough up?" asked Lenox.
Her mother looked at her reproachfully snd murmured.
"We should have to come to some financial
arrangement, of course. What with one
thing and another--the War--your poor father__"
'And Chubby now," said Lenox. "He is ar! expensive luxury if you like."
"She was a nice girl as I remember her,'
murmured Lady Tamplin, pursuing her own
line of thought--"quiet, never wanted to
shove herself forward, not a beauty, and
never a man-hunter."
"She will leave Chubby alone, then?" said
Lenox.
Lady Tamplin looked at her in protest.
"Chubby would never----" she began.
"No," said Lenox, "I don't believe he
would; he knows a jolly sight too well which
way his bread is buttered."
"Darling," said Lady Tamplin, "you have
such a coarse way of putting things."
"Sorry," said Lenox.
Lady Tamplin gathered up the Daily Mail and her negligee, a vanity-bag, and various
odd letters.
"I shall write to dear Katherine at once,"
she said, "and remind her of the dear old
days at Edgeworth."
She went into the house, a light of purpose
shining in her eyes.
Unlike Mrs. Samuel Harfield, correspondence
flowed easily from her pen. She covered
four sheets without pause or effort, and
on re-reading it found no occasion to alter a
word.
Katherine received it on the morning of ^
^er arrival in London. Whether she read between
the lines of it or not is another matter.
She put it in her handbag and started out to keep the appointment she had made with ^irs. Harfield's lawyers.
The firm was an old-established one in
Lincoln's Inn Fields, and after a few minutes' delay Katherine was shown into the
presence of the senior partner, a kindly, elderly
man with shrewd blue eyes and a fatherly
manner.
They discussed Mrs. HarfiekTs will and
various legal matters for some minutes, then
Katherine handed the lawyer Mrs. Samuel's
letter.
"I had better show you this, I suppose,"
she said, "though it is really rather ridiculous."

He read it with a slight smile.
"Rather a crude attempt. Miss Grey. I
need hardly tell you, I suppose, that these
people have no claim of any kind upon the estate, and if they endeavour to contest the will no court will uphold them."
"I thought as much."
"Human nature is not always very wise. h Mrs. Samuel Harfield's place, I should Have been more inclined to make an appeal to your generosity."
"That is one of the things I wanted to
speak to you about. I should like a certain
sum to go to these people."
"There is no obligation."
"I know that."
"And they will not take it in the spirit it
is meant. They will probably regard it as an
attempt to pay them off, though they will not refuse it on that account."
"I can see that, and it can't be helped."
"I should advise you, Miss Grey, to put
that idea out of your head."
Katherine shook her head. "You are quite
right, I know, but I should like it done all
the same."
"They will grab at the money and abuse
you all the more afterwards."
"Well," said Katherine, "let them if they
like. We all have our own ways of enjoying
ourselves. They were, after all, Mrs. Harfield's
only relatives, and though they despised
her as a poor relation and paid no
attention to her when she was alive, it seems
to me unfair that they should be cut off with
nothing."
She carried her point, though the lawyer
was still unwilling, and she presently went
out into the streets of London with a comfortable
assurance that she could spend
T|
money freely and make what plans she liked
for the future. Her first action was to visit
the establishment of a famous dressmaker.
A slim, elderly Frenchwoman, rather like
a dreaming duchess, received her, and Katherine
spoke with a certain nawete.
"I want, if I may, to put myself in your
hands. I have been very poor all my life and
know nothing about clothes, but now I have
come into some money and want to look
really well dressed."
The Frenchwoman was charmed. She had
an artist's temperament, which had been
soured earlier in the morning by a visit from
an Argentine meat queen, who had insisted
on having those models least suited to her
flamboyant type of beauty. She scrutinized
Katherine with keen, clever eyes. "Yes--
yes, it will be a pleasure. Mademoiselle has
a very good figure; for her the simple lines
will be best. She is also tres anglaise. Some
People it would offend them if I said that,
out Mademoiselle, no. Une belle Anglaise, ^ere is no style more delightful."
The demeanour of a dreaming duchess ^s suddenly put off. She screamed out di^ction
to various mannequins. "Clothilde,
^ginie, quickly, my little ones, the little ^illeur gris clair and the robe de soiree 'soupir
d'automne.9 Marcelle, my child, the little mimosa
suit of crepe de chine."
It was a charming morning. Marcelle,
Clothilde, Virginie, bored and scornful,
passed slowly round, squirming and wriggling
in the time-honoured fashion of mannequins.
The Duchess stood by Katherine
and made entries in a small notebook.
"An excellent choice. Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle
has great gout. Yes, indeed. Mademoiselle
cannot do better than those little
suits if she is going to the Riviera, as I suppose, this winter."
"Let me see that evening dress once
more," said Katherine--"the pinky mauve
one."
Virginie appeared, circling slowly.
"That is the prettiest of all," said Katherine, as she surveyed the exquisite draperies
of mauve and grey and blue. "What do you
call it?"
^Soupir d'automne; yes, yes, that is truly
the dress of Mademoiselle."
What was there in these words that came back to Katherine with a faint feeling of sadness
after she had left the dressmaking es'
tablishment.
c< 'Soupir d'automne; that is truly the dress
of Mademoiselle.'" Autumn, yes, it was au

tuinn for her. She who had never known
spring or summer, and would never know
them now. Something she had lost never
could be given to her again. These years of
servitude in St. Mary Mead--and all the
while life passing by.
"I am an idiot," said Katherine. "I am an
idiot. What do I want? Why, I was more
*******ed a month ago than I am now."
She drew out from her handbag the letter
she had received that morning from Lady
Tamplin. Katherine was no fool. She understood
the nuances of that letter as well as
anybody and the reason of Lady Tamplin's
sudden show of affection towards a longforgotten
cousin was not lost upon her. It
was for profit and not for pleasure that Lady
Tamplin was so anxious for the company of
her dear cousin. Well, why not? There
would be profit on both sides.
"I will go," said Katherine.
She was walking down Piccadilly at the moment, and turned into Cook's to clinch
the matter then and there. She had to wait for a few minutes. The man with whom the
clerk was engaged was also going to the Riv- ^ra. Every one, she felt, was going. Well,
^r the first time in her life, she, too, would ^ doing what "everybody did."
k. H I ^ The man in front of her turned abruptly, and she stepped into his place. She made her
demand to the clerk, but at the same time
half of her mind was busy with something
else. That man's face--in some vague way
it was familiar to her. Where had she seen
him before? Suddenly she remembered. It
was in the Savoy outside her room that morning.
She had collided with him in the passage.
Rather an odd coincidence that she
should run into him twice in a day. She
glanced over her shoulder, rendered uneasy
by something, she knew not what. The man
was standing in the doorway looking back at
her. A cold shiver passed over Katherine;
she had a haunting sense of tragedy, of doom
impending. . . .
Then she shook the impression from her
with her usual good sense and turned her
whole attention to what the clerk was saying.
Chapter 9
An Offer Refused
it was rarely that Derek Kettering allowed
his temper to get the better of him. An easygoing
insouciance was his chief characteristic
5 and it had stood him in good stead in
more than one tight corner. Even now, by
the time he had left Mirelle's flat, he had
cooled down. He had need of coolness. The
corner he was in now was a tighter one than
he had ever been in before, and unforeseen
factors had arisen with which, for the moment, he did not know how to deal.
He strolled along deep in thought. His
brow was furrowed, and there was none of
the easy, jaunty manner which sat so well ^on him. Various possibilities floated
~Trough
his mind. It might have been said
°f Derek Kettering that he was less of a fool Jhan he looked. He saw several roads that ue might take--one in particular. If he ^rank from it, it was for the moment only.
Desperate ills need desperate remedies. He
had gauged his father-in-law correctly. A war
between Derek Kettering and Rufus Van Aldin
could end only one way. Derek damned
money and the power of money vehemently
to himself. He walked up St. James's Street, across Piccadilly, and strolled along it in the
direction of Piccadilly Circus. As he passed
the offices of Messrs. Thomas Cook & Sons
his footsteps slackened. He walked on, however, still turning the matter over in his
mind. Finally, he gave a brief nod of his
head, turned sharply--so sharply as to collide
with a couple of pedestrians who were
following in his footsteps, and went back the
way he had come. This time he did not pass
Cook's, but went in. The office was comparatively
empty, and he got attended to at
once.
"I want to go to Nice next week. Will you
give me particulars?"
"What date, sir?"
"The 14th. What is the best train?"
"Well, of course, the best train is what
they call The Blue Train.' You avoid the
tiresome Customs business at Calais."
Derek nodded. He knew all this, none
better.
"The 14th," murmured the clerk; "thai
FR1;is rather soon. The Blue Train is nearly always
all booked up."
"See if there is a berth left," said Derek.
"If there is not----" He left the sentence
unfinished^ with a curious smile on his face.
The clerk disappeared for a few minutes, and presently returned. "That is all right, sir; still three berths left. I will book you
one of them. What name?"
"Pavett," said Derek. He gave the address
of his rooms in Jermyn Street.
The clerk nodded, finished writing it
down, wished Derek good morning politely, and turned his attention to the next client.
"I want to go to Nice--on the 14th. Isn't
there a train called the Blue Train?"
Derek looked round sharply.
Coincidence--a strange coincidence. He
remembered his own half-whimsical words
to Mirelle, "Portrait of a lady with grey eyes. I don't suppose I shall ever see her again." But
he had seen her again, and, what was more,
^e proposed to travel to the Riviera on the ^me day as he did.
Just for a moment a shiver passed over
It'
^m; in some ways he was superstitious. He ^sd said, half-laughingly, that this woman ^ight bring him bad luck. Suppose--supP°se
that should prove to be true. From the
doorway he looked back at her as she stood
talking to the clerk. For once his memory
had not played him false. A lady—a lady in
every sense of the word. Not very young,
not singularly beautiful. But with something—grey
eyes that might perhaps see too
much. He knew as he went out of the door
that in some way he was afraid of this
woman. He had a sense of fatality.
He went back to his rooms in Jermyn
Street and summoned his man.
"Take this cheque, Pavett, cash it first
thing in the morning, and go around to
Cook's in Piccadilly. They will have some
tickets there booked in your name, pay for
them, and bring them back."
"Very good, sir."
Pavett withdrew.
Derek strolled over to a side-table and
picked up a handful of letters. They were of
a type only too familiar. Bills, small bills and
large bills, one and all pressing for payment.
The tone of the demands was still polite.
Derek knew how soon that polite tone would
change if—if certain news became public
property.
He flung himself moodily into a large?
leather-covered chair. A damned hole—that
was what he was in. Yes, a damned hole1
^
And ways of getting out of that damned hole were not too promising.
pavett appeared with a discreet cough.
"A gentleman to see you--sir--Major
Knighton."
"Knighton, eh?"
Derek sat up, frowned, became suddenly
alert. He said in a softer tone, almost to himself:
"Knighton--I wonder what is in the
wind now?"
"Shall I--er--show him in, sir?"
His master nodded. When Knighton entered
the room he found a charming and
genial host awaiting him.
"Very good of you to look me up," said
Derek.
Knighton was nervous.
The other's keen eyes noticed that at once.
The errand on which the secretary had come
was clearly distasteful to him. He replied
almost mechanically to Derek's easy flow of
conversation. He declined a drink, and, if snything, his manner became stiffer than before.
Derek appeared at last to notice it.
"Well," he said cheerfully, "what does my ^teemed father-in-law want with me? You We come on his business, I take it?"
Knighton did not smile in reply.
"I have, yes," he said carefully. "I--I
wish Mr. Van Aldin had chosen some one
else."
Derek raised his eyebrows in mock dismay.

"Is it as bad as all that? I am not very thin
skinned, I can assure you 5 Knighton."
"No," said Knighton; "but this----"
He paused.
Derek eyed him keenly.
"Go on, out with it," he said kindly. "I
can imagine my dear father-in-law's errands
might not always be pleasant ones."
Knighton cleared his throat. He spoke formally
in tones that he strove to render free
of embarrassment.
"I am directed by Mr. Van Aldin to make
you a definite offer."
"An offer?" For a moment Derek showed
his surprise. Knighton's opening words were
clearly not what he had expected. He offered
a cigarette to Knighton, lit one himself, and
sank back in his chair, murmuring in a
slightly sardonic voice:
"An offer? That sounds rather interesting."

"Shall I go on?"
"Please. You must forgive my surprise,
but it seems to me that my dear father-in" law has rather climbed down since our chat
this morning. And climbing down is not
what one associates with strong men. Napoleons
of finance, etc. It shows--I think it
shows that he finds his position weaker than
he thought it."
Knighton listened politely to the easy, mocking voice, but no sign of any kind
showed itself on his rather stolid countenance.
He waited until Derek had finished, and then he said quietly.
"I will state the proposition in the fewest
possible words."
«/~'/v /^,»» "
LrO On.
Knighton did not look at the other. His
voice was curt and matter-of-fact.
"The matter is simply this. Mrs. Kettering, as you know, is about to file a petition
for divorce. If the case goes undefended you
will receive one hundred thousand on the
day that the decree is made absolute."
Derek, in the act of lighting his cigarette, suddenly stopped dead.
"A hundred thousand!" he said sharply. "Dollars?"
"Pounds."
There was dead silence for at least two Minutes. Kettering had his brows together Linking. A hundred thousand pounds. It ^eant Mirelle and a continuance of his pleasant, carefree life. It meant that Van Aldin
knew something. Van Aldin did not pay for
nothing. He got up and stood by the chimney-piece.

"And in the event of my refusing his handsome
offer?" he asked, with a cold, ironical
politeness.
Knighton made a deprecating gesture.
"I can assure you, Mr. Kettering," he said
earnestly, "that it is with the utmost unwillingness
that I came here with this message."

"That's all right," said Kettering. "Don't
distress yourself; it's not your fault. Now
then--I asked you a question, will you answer
it?"
Knighton also rose. He spoke more reluctantly
than before.
"In the event of your refusing this proposition,"
he said, "Mr. Van Aldin wished
me to tell you in plain words that he proposes
to break you. Just that."
Kettering raised his eyebrows, but he retained
his light, amused manner.
"Well, well!" he said, "I suppose he can
do it. I certainly should not be able to put
up much of a fight against America's man
of millions. A hundred thousand! If you are
going to bribe a man there is nothing like
doing it thoroughly. Supposing I were to tell
you that for two hundred thousand I'd do
what he wanted, what then?"
a! would take your message back to Mr.
Van Aldin," said Knighton unemotionally.
"Is that your answer?"
"No," said Derek; "funnily enough it is
not. You can go back to my father-in-law
and tell him to take himself and his bribes
to hell. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly," said Knighton. He got up,
hesitated, and then flushed. "I—you will
allow me to say, Mr. Kettering, that I am
glad you have answered as you have."
Derek did not reply. When the other had
left the room he remained for a minute or
two lost in thought. A curious smile came
to his lips.
"And that is that," he said softly.
Chapter 10
On the Blue Train
"dad!"
Mrs. Kettering started violently. Her
nerves were not completely under control
this morning. Very perfectly dressed in a
long mink coat and a little hat of Chinese
lacquer red, she had been walking along the
crowded platform of Victoria deep in
thought, and her father's sudden appearance
and hearty greeting had an unlooked-for effect
upon her.
"Why, Ruth, how you jumped!"
"I didn't expect to see you, I suppose,
Dad. You said good-bye to me last night
and said you had a conference this morning."
"So I have," said Van Aldin, "but you are
more to me than any number of darned conferences.
I came to take a last look at you,
since I am not going to see you for some
time."
"That is very sweet of you. Dad. I wish
you were coming too."
"What would you say if I did?"
The remark was merely a joking one. He was surprised to see the quick colour flame
in Ruth's cheeks. For a moment he almost
thought he saw dismay flash out of her eyes.
She laughed uncertainly and nervously.
"Just for a moment I really thought you
meant it," she said.
"Would you have been pleased?"
"Of course." She spoke with exaggerated
emphasis.
"Well," said Van Aldin, "that's good."
"It isn't really for very long. Dad," continued
Ruth; "you know, you are coming
out next month."
"Ah!" said Van Aldin unemotionally, "sometimes I guess I will go to one of these ^g guys in Harley Street and have him tell n^ that I need sunshine and change of air
right away."
"Don't be so lazy," cried Ruth; "next ^onth is ever so much nicer than this month
°Ut there. You have got all sorts of things You can't possibly leave just now."
"Well, that's so, I suppose," said Van Al^ with a sigh. "You had better be getting
on board this train of yours, Ruth. Whe e
is your seat?"
Ruth Kettering looked vaguely up at the
train. At the door of one of the Pullman cars
a thin, tall woman dressed in black was
standing--Ruth Kettering's maid. She drew
aside as her mistress came up to her.
"I have put your dressing-case under your seat. Madam, in case you should need it.
Shall I take the rugs, or will you require
one?"
"No, no, I shan't want one. Better go and
find your own seat now. Mason."
"Yes, Madam."
The maid departed.
Van Aldin entered the Pullman car with
Ruth. She found her seat, and Van Aldin
deposited various papers and magazines on
the table in front of her. The seat opposite
to her was already taken, and the American
gave a cursory glance at its occupant. He had
a fleeting impression of attractive grey eyes
and a neat travelling costume. He indulged
in a little more desultory conversation with
Ruth, the kind of talk peculiar to those
seeing other people off by train.
Presently, as whistles blew, he glanced at
his watch.
"I had best be clearing out of here. Goodbye? nlv ^ear* ^)on?t worry, I will attend to
things."
^Oh, father!"
He turned back sharply. There had been
something in Ruth's voice, something so entirely
foreign to her usual manner, that he
was startled. It was almost a cry of despair.
She had made an impulsive movement towards
him, but in another minute she was
mistress of herself once more.
"Till next month," she said cheerfully.
Two minutes later the train started.
Ruth sat very still, biting her under lip
and trying hard to keep the unaccustomed
tears from her eyes. She felt a sudden sense
of horrible desolation. There was a wild
longing upon her to jump out of the train
and to go back before it was too late. She, so calm, so self-assured, for the first time in
her life felt like a leaf swept by the wind. If
her father knew--what would he say?
Madness! Yes, just that, madness! For the
first time in her life she was swept away by lotion, swept away to the point of doing a
thing which even she knew to be incredibly
C i
Polish and reckless. She was enough Van Odin's daughter to realize her own folly, and level headed enough to condemn her own ^tion. But she was his daughter in another
sense also. She had that same iron determination
that would have what it wante^ and once it had made up its mind would not
be balked. From her cradle she had been
self-willed; the very circumstances of her life
had developed that self-will in her. It drove
her now remorselessly. Well, the die was
cast. She must go through with it now.
She looked up, and her eyes met those of
the woman sitting opposite. She had a sudden
fancy that in some way this other woman
had read her mind. She saw in those grey
eyes understanding and--yes--compassion.
It was only a fleeting impression. The
faces of both women hardened to well-bred
impassiveness. Mrs. Kettering took up a
magazine, and Katherine Grey looked out of
the window and watched a seemingly endless
vista of depressing streets and suburban
houses.
Ruth found an increasing difficulty in fixing
her mind on the printed page in front of
her. In spite of herself, a thousand apprehensions
preyed on her mind. What a fool
she had been! What a fool she wasi Like all
cool and self-sufficient people, when she did
lose her self-control she lost it thoroughly- It was too late. . . . Was it too late? Oh, for
some one to speak to, for some one to advise
her. She had never before had such a wish;
she would have scorned the idea of relying
on any judgment other than her own, but
now--what was the matter with her? Panic. Yes, that would describe it best--panic.
She, Ruth Kettering, was completely and
utterly panic stricken.
She stole a covert glance at the figure opposite.
If only she knew some one like that, some nice, cool, calm, sympathetic creature.
That was the sort of person one could talk
to. But you can't, of course, confide in a
stranger. And Ruth smiled to herself a little
at the idea. She picked up the magazine
again. Really she must control herself. After
all, she had thought all this out. She had
decided of her own free will. What happiness
had she ever had in her life up to now? She
said to herself restlessly: "Why shouldn't I
be happy? No one will ever know."
It seemed no time before Dover was reached. Ruth was a good sailor. She disliked Ae cold, and was glad to reach the shelter
of the private cabin she had telegraphed for. Although she would not have admitted the ^ct, Ruth was in some ways superstitious. She was of the order of people to whom co- ^cidence appeals. After disembarking at Ca- lais and settling herself down with her maid
in her double compartment in the Blue
Train, she went along to the luncheon car.
It was with a little shock of surprise that she
found herself set down to a small table with, opposite her, the same woman who had been
her vis-a-vis in the Pullman. A faint smile
came to the lips of both women.
"This is quite a coincidence," said Mrs.
Kettering.
"I know," said Katherine; "it is odd the
way things happen."
A flying attendant shot up to them with
the wonderful velocity always displayed by
the Compagnie Internationale des WagonsLits
and deposited two cups of soup. By the
time the omelette succeeded the soup they
were chatting together in friendly fashion.
"It will be heavenly to get into the sunshine,"
sighed Ruth.
"I am sure it will be a wonderful feeling."
"You know the Riviera well?"
"No; this is my first visit."
"Fancy that."
"You go every year, I expect?"
"Practically. January and February in
London are horrible."
"I have always lived in the country. They
are not very inspiring months there either.
Mostly mud."
"What made you suddenly decide to
travel?"
"Money," said Katherine. "For ten years
I have been a paid companion with just
enough money of my own to buy myself
strong country shoes; now I have been left
what seems to me a fortune, though I dare
say it would not seem so to you."
"Now I wonder why you say that--that
it would not seem so to me."
Katherine laughed. "I don't really know.
I suppose one forms impressions without
thinking of it. I put you down in my own
mind as one of the very rich of the earth. It
was just an impression. I dare say I am
wrong."
"No," said Ruth, "you are not wrong."
She had suddenly become very grave. "I
wish you would tell me what other impressions
you formed about me?"
"T___??
Ruth swept on disregarding the other's ^barrassment.
'Oh, please, don't be conventional. I want ^ know. As we left Victoria I looked across at you, and I had the sort of feeling that
you--well, understood what was going on in my mind."
"I can assure you I am not a mind reader,"
said Katherine, smiling.
"No; but will you tell me, please, just
what you thought." Ruth's eagerness was so
intense and so sincere that she carried her
point.
"I will tell you if you like, but you must
not think me impertinent. I thought that for
some reason you were in great distress of
mind, and I was sorry for you."
"You are right. You are quite right. I am
in terrible trouble. I—I should like to tell
you something about it, if I may."
"Oh, dear," Katherine thought to herself,
"how extraordinarily alike the world seems
to be everywhere! People were always telling
me things in St. Mary Mead, and it is just
the same thing here, and I don't really want
to hear anybody's troubles!"
She replied politely:
"Do tell me."
They were just finishing their lunch. Ruth
gulped down her coffee, rose from her seat,
and quite oblivious of the fact that Katherine
had not begun to sip her coffee, said: "Come
to my compartment with me."
They were two single compartments with
a communicating door between them. In the
second of them a thin maid, whom Kath-
erine had noticed at Victoria, was sitting very
upright on the seat, clutching a big scarlet morocco case with the initials R. V. K. on
it. Mrs. Kettering pulled the communicating
door to and sank down on the seat. Katherine
sat down beside her.
"I am in trouble and I don't know what
to do. There is a man whom I am fond of --very fond of indeed. We cared for each
other when we were young, and we were
thrust apart most brutally and unjustly. Now
we have come together again."
"Yes?"
"I--I am going to meet him now. Oh! I
dare say you think it is all wrong, but you
don't know the circumstances. My husband
is impossible. He has treated me disgracefully."

"Yes," said Katherine again.
"What I feel so badly about is this. I have
deceived my father--it was he who came to ^e me off at Victoria to-day. He wishes me ^ divorce my husband, and, of course, he ^as no idea--that I am going to meet this ^her man. He would think it extraordinarily
foolish."
"Well, don't you think it is?" L- '^--I suppose it is."
Ruth Kettering looked down at her hands;
they were shaking violently.
"But I can't draw back now."
"Why not?"
"I--it is all arranged, and it would break
his heart."
"Don't you believe it," said Katherine robustly;
"hearts are pretty tough."
"He will think I have no courage, no
strength of purpose."
"It seems to me an awfully silly thing that
you are going to do," said Katherine. "I
think you realize that yourself."
Ruth Kettering buried her face in her
hands. "I don't know--I don't know. Ever
since I left Victoria I have had a horrible
feeling of something--something that is
coming to me very soon--that I can't escape."

She clutched convulsively at Katherine's
hand.
"You must think I am mad talking to you
like this, but I tell you I know something
horrible is going to happen."
"Don't think it," said Katherine; "try to
pull yourself together. You could send your
father a wire from Paris, if you like, and he
would come to you at once."
The other brightened.
"Yes, I could do that. Dear old Dad. It
is queer--but I never knew until to-day how
terribly fond of him I am." She sat up and
dried her eyes with a handkerchief. "I have
been very foolish. Thank you so much for
letting me talk to you. I don't know why I
got into such a queer, hysterical state."
She got up. "I am quite all right now. I
suppose, really, I just needed some one to
talk to. I can't think now why I have been
making such an absolute fool of myself."
{Catherine got up too.
"I am so glad you feel better," she said, trying to make her voice sound as conventional
as possible. She was only too well
aware that the aftermath of confidences is
embarrassment. She added tactfully:
"I must be going back to my own compartment."

She emerged into the corridor at the same
time as the maid was also coming out from
the next door. The latter looked towards
Katherine, over her shoulder, and an expression
of intense surprise showed itself on her face. Katherine turned also, but by that time Whoever it was who had aroused the maid's Merest had retreated into his or her compartment, and the corridor was empty. ytherine walked down it to regain her own
place, which was in the next coach. As she
passed the end compartment the door
opened and a woman's face looked out for a
moment and then pulled the door to sharply.
It was a face not easily forgotten, as Katherine
was to know when she saw it again. A
beautiful face, oval and dark, very heavily
made up in a bizarre fashion. Katherine had
a feeling that she had seen it before somewhere.

She regained her own compartment without
other adventure and sat for some time
thinking of the confidence which had just
been made to her. She wondered idly who
the woman in the mink coat might be, wondered
also how the end of her story would
turn out.
"If I have stopped any one from making
an idiot of themselves, I suppose I have done
good work," she thought to herself. "But
who knows? That is the kind of woman who
is hard-headed and egotistical all her life, and
it might be good for her to do the other sort
of thing for a change. Oh, well--I don't suppose
I shall ever see her again. She certainly
won't want to see me again. That is the worst
of letting people tell you things. They never
do."
She hoped that she would not be given the
san^ pl^6 ^ dinner. She reflected, not without
humour, that it might be awkward for both of them. Leaning back with her head
against a cushion she felt tired and vaguely
depressed. They had reached Paris, and the
slow journey round the ceinture, with its interminable
stops and waits, was very wearisome.
When they arrived at the Gare de
Lyon she was glad to get out and walk up
and down the platform. The keen cold air
was *******ing after the steam-heated train.
She observed with a smile that her friend of
the mink coat was solving the possible awkwardness
of the dinner problem in her own
way. A dinner basket was being handed up
and received through the window by the
maid.
When the train started once more, and
dinner was announced by a violent ringing
of bells, Katherine went along to it much
relieved in mind. Her vis-a-vis to-night was
°t an entirely different kind--a small man,
distinctly foreign in appearance, with a rigidly
waxed moustache and an egg-shaped
h^d which he carried rather on one side. Catherine had taken in a book to dinner with ^r. She found the little man's eyes fixed ^PPn it with a kind of twinkling amusement.
B i i r\1^
"I see, Madame, that you have a Roman
Policier. You are fond of such things?"
"They amuse me," Katherine admitted.
The little man nodded with the air of complete
understanding.
"They have a good sale always, so I am
told. Now why is that, eh. Mademoiselle? I
ask it of you as a student of human nature
--why should that be?"
Katherine felt more and more amused.
"Perhaps they give one the illusion of living
an exciting life," she suggested.
He nodded gravely.
"Yes, there is something in that." /
"Of course, one knows that such things
don't really happen," Katherine was continuing, but he interrupted her sharply.
"Sometimes, Mademoiselle! Sometimes! I
who speak to you--they have happened to
me."
She threw him a quick, interested glance.
"Some day, who knows, you might be in
the thick of things," he went on. "It is all I
chance." '
"I don't think it is likely," said Katherine;
"Nothing of that kind ever happens to me.
He leaned forward.
"Would you like it to?"
I
^rr
The question startled her, and she drew ^ her breath sharply.
^It is my fancy, perhaps," said the little
man, as he dexterously polished one of the
forks, "but I think that you have a yearning
in you for interesting happenings. Eh bien, Mademoiselle, all through my life I have observed
one thing--'All one wants one gets!5 Who knows?" His face screwed itself up
comically. "You may get more than you bargain
for."
"Is that a prophecy?" asked Katherine, smiling as she rose from the table.
The little man shook his head.
"I never prophesy," he declared pompously.
"It is true that I have the habit of
being always right--but I do not boast of it.
Good-night, Mademoiselle, and may you
sleep well."
Katherine went back along the train amused and entertained by her little neighbour.
She passed the open door of her friend's compartment and saw the conductor baking up the bed. The lady in the mink ^at was standing looking out of the window. fhe second compartment, as Katherine saw trough the communicating door, was ^pty, with rugs and bags heaped up on the ^at. The maid was not there.
Katherine found her own bed prepared
and since she was tired, she went to bed and
switched off her light about half-past nine.
She woke with a sudden start; how much
time had passed she did not know. Glancing
at her watch, she found that it had stopped.
A feeling of intense uneasiness pervaded her
and grew stronger moment by moment. At
last she got up, threw her dressing-gown
round her shoulders, and stepped out into
the corridor. The whole train seemed
wrapped in slumber. Katherine let down the
window and sat by it for some minutes, drinking in the cool night air and trying
vainly to calm her uneasy fears. She presently
decided that she would go along to the
end and ask the conductor for the right time
so that she could set her watch. She found,
however, that his little chair was vacant.
She hesitated for a moment and then
walked through into the next coach. She
looked down the long, dim line of the corridor
and saw, to her surprise, that a man
was standing with his hand on the door of
the compartment occupied by the lady in the
mink coat. That is to say, she thought it was
the compartment. Probably, however, she
was mistaken. He stood there for a moment
or two with his back to her, seeming uncer-
rr
tain an(^ hesitating in his attitude. Then he
slowly turned, and with an odd feeling of
fatality, Katherine recognized him as the
same man whom she had noticed twice
before--once in the corridor of the Savoy Hotel and once in Cook's offices. Then he
opened the door of the compartment and
passed in, drawing it to behind him.
An idea flashed across Katherine's mind.
Could this be the man of whom the other
woman had spoken--the man she was journeying
to meet.
Then Katherine told herself that she was
romancing. In all probability she had mistaken
the compartment.
She went back to her own carriage. Five
minutes later the train slackened speed.
There was the long plaintive hiss of the
Westinghouse brake, and a few minutes later
the train came to a stop at Lyons.
Chapter 11
Murder
katherine wakened the next morning to
brilliant sunshine. She went along to breakfast
early 5 but met none of her acquaintances
of the day before. When she returned to her
compartment it had just been restored to its
daytime appearance by the conductor, a dark
man with a drooping moustache and melancholy
face.
"Madame is fortunate," he said; "the sun
shines. It is always a great disappointment
to passengers when they arrive on a grey
morning."
"I should have been disappointed, certainly," said Katherine.
The man prepared to depart.
"We are rather late, Madame," he said.
"I will let you know just before we get to
Nice."
Katherine nodded. She sat by the window;
entranced by the sunlit panorama. The pali11
trees, the deep blue of the sea, the bright yellow mimosa came with all the charm of
novelty to the woman who for fourteen years
had known only the drab winters of England.
When
they arrived at Cannes, Katherine
got out and walked up and down the platform.
She was curious about the lady in the
mink coat, and looked up at the windows of
her compartment. The blinds were still
drawn down--the only ones to be so on the
whole train. Katherine wondered a little, and
when she re-entered the train she passed
along the corridor and noticed that these two
compartments were still shuttered and
closed. The lady of the mink coat was clearly
no early riser.
Presently the conductor came to her and
told her that in a few minutes the train would
arrive at Nice. Katherine handed him a tip;
the man thanked her, but still lingered.
There was something odd about him. Katharine, who had at first wondered whether the tip had not been big enough, was now ^nvinced that something far more serious ^as amiss. His face was of a sickly pallor, Qe was shaking all over, and looked as if he ^d been frightened out of his life. He was
Veing her in a curious manner. Presently he
BE' - .
said abruptly: "Madame will excuse me, \ ut
is she expecting friends to meet her at Nice^5
"Probably," said Katherine. "Why?" '
But the man merely shook his head and
murmured something that Katherine could
not catch and moved away, not reappearing
until the train came to rest at the station,
when he started handing her belongings
down from the window.
Katherine stood for a moment or two on
the platform rather at a loss, but a fair young
man with an ingenuous face came up to her
and said rather hesitatingly:
"Miss Grey, is it not?"
Katherine said that it was, and the young
man beamed upon her seraphically and murmured:

"I am Chubby, you know--Lady Tamplin's
husband. I expect she mentioned me,
but perhaps she forgot. Have you got your billet de bagages? I lost mine when I came
out this year, and you would not believe the
fuss they made about it. Regular French red
tape!"
Katherine produced it, and was just about
to move off beside him when a very gentle
and insidious voice murmured in her ear:
"A little moment, Madame, if Y°^ please."
ICatherine turned to behold an individual
who made up for insignificance of stature by
a large quantity of gold lace and uniform.
The individual explained. "There were certain
formalities. Madame would perhaps be
so kind as to accompany him. The regulations
of the police----" He threw up his
arms. "Absurd, doubtless, but there it was."
Mr. Chubby Evans listened with a very
imperfect comprehension, his French being
of a limited order.
"So like the French," murmured Mr. Evans.
He was one of those staunch patriotic
Britons who, having made a portion of a
foreign country their own, strongly resent
the original inhabitants of it. "Always up to
some silly dodge or other. They've never
tackled people on the station before, though.
This is something quite new. I suppose
you'll have to go."
Katherine departed with her guide. Somewhat
to her surprise, he led her towards a
siding where a coach of the departed train
had been shunted. He invited her to mount ^to this, and, preceding her down the cor- ^or, held aside the door of one of the compartments.
In it was a pompous-looking
°fficial personage, and with him a nonde^ript
being who appeared to be a clerk. The
pompous-looking personage rose politely
bowed to Katherine, and said:
"You will excuse me, Madame, but there
are certain formalities to be complied with.
Madame speaks French, I trust?"
"Sufficiently, I think. Monsieur," replied
Katherine in that language.
"That is good. Pray be seated, Madame.
I am M. Caux, the Commissary of Police."
He blew out his chest importantly, and
Katherine tried to look sufficiently impressed.

"You wish to see my passport?" she inquired.
"Here it is."
The Commissary eyed her keenly and gave
a little grunt.
"Thank you, Madame," he said, taking
the passport from her. He cleared his throat.
"But what I really desire is a little infor- 11 mation."
"Information?"
| The Commissary nodded his head slowly. ; "About a lady who has been a fellow-passenger
of yours. You lunched with her yesterday."

"I am afraid I can't tell you anything about
her. We fell into conversation over our meal 5
but she is a complete stranger to me. I have
never seen her before."
"And yet," said the Commissary sharply,
«you returned to her compartment with her
after lunch and sat talking for some time?"
"Yes," said Katherine, "that is true."
The Commissary seemed to expect her to
say something more. He looked at her encouragingly.

"Yes, Madame?"
"Well, Monsieur?" said Katherine.
"You can, perhaps, give me some kind of
idea of that conversation?"
"I could," said Katherine, "but at the moment
I see no reason to do so."
In somewhat British fashion she felt annoyed.
This foreign official seemed to her
impertinent.
"No reason?" cried the Commissary. "Oh
yes, Madame, I can assure you that there is a reason."
"Then perhaps you will give it to me."
The Commissary rubbed his chin thoughtfully
for a minute or two without speaking.
"Madame," he said at last, "the reason is ^ry simple. The lady in question was found ^ad in her compartment this morning."
. "Dead!" gasped Katherine. "What was lt--heart failure?"
No," said the Commissary in a reflective,
^eainy voice. "No--she was murdered."
"Murdered!" cried Katherine.
"So you see, Madame, why we are anxious
for any information we can possibly get."
"But surely her maid----"
"The maid has disappeared."
"Ohi" Katherine paused to assemble her
thoughts.
"Since the conductor had seen you talking
with her in her compartment, he quite naturally
reported the fact to the police, and
that is why, Madame, we have detained you,
in the hope of gaining some information."
"I am very sorry," said Katherine; "I
don't even know her name."
"Her name is Kettering. That we know
from her passport and from the labels on her
luggage. If we----"
There was a knock on the compartment
door. M. Caux frowned. He opened it about
six inches.
"What is the matter?" he said peremptorily.
"I cannot be disturbed."
The egg-shaped head of Katherine5 s dinner
acquaintance showed itself in the aperture.
On his face was a beaming smile.
"My name," he said, "is Hercule Poirot."
"Not," the Commissary stammered, "n01 the Hercule Poirot?"
"The same," said Mr. Poirot. "I remein-
"7-
her meeting you once, M. Caux, at the Surete
[^ Paris, though doubtless you have forgotten
me?"
"Not at all. Monsieur, not at all," declared
the Commissary heartily. "But enter, I pray
of you. You know of this----"
"Yes, I know," said Hercule Poirot. "I
came to see if I might be of any assistance?"
"We should be flattered," replied the Commissary
promptly. "Let me present you, Mr.
Poirot, to"--he consulted the passport he still
held in his hand--"to Madame--er--Mademoiselle
Grey."
Poirot smiled across at Katherine.
"It is strange, is it not," he murmured, "that my words should have come true so
quickly?"
"Mademoiselle, alas! can tell us very little,"
said the Commissary.
"I have been explaining," said Katherine, "that this poor lady was a complete stranger
to me."
Poirot nodded.
"But she talked to you, did she not?" he
said gently. "You formed an impression-- is it not so?"
"Yes," said Katherine thoughtfully. "I ^Ppose I did."
And that impression was----"
"Yes, Mademoiselle"--the Commissary
jerked himself forward--"let us by all means
have your impressions."
Katherine sat turning the whole thing over
in her mind. She felt in a way as if she were
betraying a confidence, but with that ugly
word "Murder" ringing in her ears she dared
not keep anything back. Too much might
hang upon it. So, as nearly as she could, she
repeated word for word the conversation she
had had with the dead woman.
"That is interesting," said the Commissary, glancing at the other. "Eh, M. Poirot,
that is interesting? Whether it has anything
to do with the crime----" He left the sentence
unfinished.
"I suppose it could not be suicide," said
Katherine, rather doubtfully.
"No," said the Commissary, "it could not
be suicide. She was strangled with a length
of black cord."
"Ohi" Katherine shivered. M. Caux
spread out his hands apologetically. "It 1s not nice--no. I think that our train robbers
are more brutal than they are in your country."

"It is horrible."
"Yes, yes"--he was soothing and
apologetic--"but you have great courage
Mademoiselle. At once, as soon as I saw you, T said to myself, 'Mademoiselle has great
courage.5 That is why I am going to ask you
to do something more--something distressing; but I assure you very necessary."
Katherine looked at him apprehensively.
He spread out his hands apologetically.
"I am going to ask you. Mademoiselle, to
be so good as to accompany me to the next
compartment."
"Must I?" asked Katherine in a low voice.
"Some one must identify her," said the
Commissary, "and since the maid has
disappeared"--he coughed significantly--
"you appear to be the person who has seen
most of her since she joined the train."
"Very well," said Katherine quietly; "if
it is necessary----"
She rose. Poirot gave her a little nod of
approval.
"Mademoiselle is sensible," he said. "May
I accompany you, M. Caux?"
"Enchanted, my dear M. Poirot."
They went out into the corridor, and M. ^aux unlocked the door of the dead woman's ^mpartment. The blinds on the far side had ^en drawn half-way up to admit light. The ^ad woman lay on the berth to their left, in so natural a posture that one could have
thought her asleep. The bedclothes were
drawn up over her, and her head was turned
to the wall, so that only the red auburn curls
showed. Very gently M. Caux laid a hand
on her shoulder and turned the body back
so that the face came into view. Katherine
flinched a little and dug her nails into her
palms. A heavy blow had disfigured the fea~ tures almost beyond recognition. Poirot gave
a sharp exclamation.
"When was that done, I wonder?" he demanded.
"Before death or after?"
"The doctor says after," said M. Caux.
"Strange," said Poirot, drawing his brows
together.
He turned to Katherine. "Be brave, Mademoiselle, look at her well. Are you sure
that this is the woman you talked to in the
train yesterday?"
Katherine had good nerves. She steeled
herself to look long and earnestly at the recumbent
figure. Then she leaned forward
and took up the dead woman's hand.
"I am quite sure," she replied at length.
"The face is too disfigured to recognize, but
the build and carriage and hair are exact,
and besides I noticed this"--she pointed to
a tiny mole on the dead woman's wrist-^ "while I was talking to her."
122
^Bon," approved Poirot. "You are an excellent
witness. Mademoiselle. There is, then? n0 question as to the identity, but it
is strange, all the same." He frowned down
on the dead woman in perplexity.
M. Caux shrugged his shoulders.
"The murderer was carried away by rage, doubtless," he suggested.
"If she had been struck down, it would
have been comprehensible," mused Poirot, "but the man who strangled her slipped up
behind and caught her unawares. A little
choke--a little gurgle--that is all that would
be heard, and then afterwards--that smashing
blow on her face. Now why? Did he hope
that if the face were unrecognizable she
might not be identified? Or did he hate her
so much that he could not resist striking that
blow even after she was dead?"
Katherine shuddered, and he turned at
once to her kindly.
"You must not let me distress you. Mademoiselle,"
he said. "To you this is all very ^w and terrible. To me, alas! it is an old
story. One moment, I pray of you both."
They stood against the door watching him as he went quickly round the compartment. ^e noted the dead woman's clothes neatly j°^ed on the end of the berth, the big fur
123
coat that hung from a hook, and the little
red lacquer hat tossed up on the rack. Then
he passed through into the adjoining compartment, that in which Katherine had seen
the maid sitting. Here the berth had not been
made up. Three or four rugs were piled
loosely on the seat; there was a hat-box and
a couple of suit-cases. He turned suddenly
to Katherine.
"You were in here yesterday," he said. "Do you see anything changed, anything
missing?"
Katherine looked carefully round both
compartments.
"Yes," she said, "there is something
missing--a scarlet morocco case. It had the
initials 'R. V. K/ on it. It might have been
a small dressing-case or a big jewel-case.
When I saw it, the maid was holding it."
"Ah!" said Poirot.
"But, surely," said Katherine. "I--of
course, I don't know anything about such |
things, but surely it is plain enough, if the
maid and the jewel-case are missing?"
"You mean that it was the maid who was
the thief? No, Mademoiselle; there is a very
good reason against that."
"What?"
"The maid was left behind in Paris."
He turned to Poirot.
"I should like you to hear the conductor's
story yourself," he murmured confidentially. (<It is ^^ suggestive."
"Mademoiselle would doubtless like to
hear it also," said Poirot. "You do not object, Monsieur Ie Commissaire?"
"No," said the Commissary, who clearly
did object very much. "No, certainly, M.
Poirot, if you say so. You have finished
here?"
"I think so. One little minute."
He had been turning over the rugs, and
now he took one to the window and looked
at it, picking something off it with his fingers.

"What is it?" demanded M. Caux sharply.
"Four auburn hairs." He bent over the
dead woman. "Yes, they are from the head
ofMadame."
"And what of it? Do you attach importance
to them?"
Poirot let the rug drop back on the seat.
"What is important? What is not? One ^nnot say at this stage. But we must note ^ch little fact carefully."
They went back again into the first comP^tment,
and in a minute or two the conductor of the carriage arrived to be
questioned.
"Your name is Pierre Michel?" said the
Commissary.
"Yes, Monsieur Ie Commissaire."
"I should like you to repeat to this
gentleman"--he indicated Poirot--"the
story that you told me as to what happened
in Paris."
"Very good. Monsieur Ie Commissaire. It
was after we had left the Gare de Lyon I
came along to make the beds, thinking that
Madame would be at dinner, but she had a
dinner-basket in her compartment. She said
to me that she had been obliged to leave her
maid behind in Paris, so that I only need
make up one berth. She took her dinnerbasket
into the adjoining compartment, and
sat there while I made up the bed; then she
told me that she did not wish to be wakened
early in the morning, that she liked to sleep
on. I told her I quite understood, and she
wished me 'goodnight.5"
"You yourself did not go into the adjoining
compartment?"
"No, Monsieur."
"Then you did not happen to notice if a scarlet morocco case was amongst the lug'
gage there?"
"No, Monsieur, I did not."
"Would it have been possible for a man
to have been concealed in the adjoining compartment?"

The conductor reflected.
"The door was half open," he said. "If a
man had stood behind that door I should not
have been able to see him, but he would, of
course, have been perfectly visible to Madame
when she went in there."
"Quite so," said Poirot, "Is there anything
more you have to tell us?"
"I think that is all. Monsieur. I can remember
nothing else."
"And now this morning?" prompted
Poirot.
"As Madame had ordered, I did not disturb
her. It was not until just before Cannes
that I ventured to knock at the door. Getting
no reply, I opened it. The lady appeared to
be in her bed asleep. I took her by the shoulder
to rouse her, and then----"
"And then you saw what had happened,"
volunteered Poirot. "Tres bien. I think I ^ow all I want to know."
"I hope. Monsieur Ie Commissaire, it is ^t that I have been guilty of any negligence,"
said the man piteously. "Such an
I I
affair to happen on the Blue Train! It is horrible."

"Console yourself," said the Commissary.
"Everything will be done to keep the affair
as quiet as possible, if only in the interests
of justice. I cannot think you have been
guilty of any negligence."
"And Monsieur Ie Commissaire will report
as much to the Company?"
"But certainly, but certainly," said M.
Caux impatiently. "That will do now."
The conductor withdrew.
"According to the medical evidence," said
the Commissary, "the lady was probably
dead before the train reached Lyons. Who
then was the murderer? From Mademoiselle's
story, it seems clear that somewhere
on her journey she was to meet this man of
whom she spoke. Her action in getting rid
of the maid seems significant. Did the man
join the train at Paris, and did she conceal
him in the adjoining compartment? If so,
they may have quarrelled, and he may have
killed her in a fit of rage. That is one possibility.
The other, and the more likely to
my mind, is that her assailant was a train
robber travelling on the train, that he stole
along the corridor unseen by the conductor,
killed her, and went off with the red morocco
case which doubtless contained jewels of
some value. In all probability he left the train at Lyons, and we have already telegraphed
to the station there for full particulars of any
one seen leaving the train."
"Or he might have come on to Nice,"
suggested Poirot.
"He might," agreed the Commissary, "but that would be a very bold course."
Poirot let a minute or two go by before
speaking, and then he said:
"In the latter case you think the man was
an ordinary train robber?"
The Commissary shrugged his shoulders.
"It depends. We must get hold of the
maid. It is possible that she has the red morocco
case with her. If so, then the man of
whom she spoke to Mademoiselle may be
concerned in the case, and the affair is a
crime of passion. I myself think the solution
of a train robber is the more probable. These
bandits have become very bold of late."
Poirot looked suddenly across to Katherine.

"And you. Mademoiselle," he said, "you ^ard and saw nothing during the night?" "Nothing," said Katherine.
Poirot turned to the Commissary.
Rl
"We need detain Mademoiselle no longer,
I think," he suggested.
The latter nodded.
"She will leave us her address?" he said.
Katherine gave him the name of Lady
Tamplin's villa. Poirot made her a little bow.
"You permit that I see you again, Mademoiselle?"
he said. "Or have you so many
friends that your time will be all taken up?"
"On the contrary," said Katherine, "I
shall have plenty of leisure, and I shall be
very pleased to see you again."
"Excellent," said Poirot, and gave her a
little friendly nod. "This shall be a 'Roman
Policier" a nous. We will investigate this affair
together."
Chapter 12
/At the Villa Marguerite
"then you were really in the thick of it all!"
said Lady Tamplin enviously. "My dear, how thrilling!" She opened her china blue
eyes very wide and gave a little sigh.
"A real murder," said Mr. Evans gloatingly.
"Of
course Chubby had no idea of anything
of the kind," went on Lady Tamplin;
"he simply could not imagine why the police
wanted you. My dear, what an opportunity!
I think, you know--yes, I certainly
think something might be made out of
this."
A calculating look rather marred the ingenuousness
of the blue eyes.
Katherine felt slightly uncomfortable.
They were just finishing lunch, and she looked in turn at the three people sitting ^Und the table. Lady Tamplin, full ofprac- ^al schemes; Mr. Evans, beaming with naive appreciation, and Lenox with a queer
crooked smile on her dark face.
"Marvellous luck," murmured Chubby
"I wish I could have gone along with you---
and seen--all the exhibits."
His tone was wistful and childlike.
Katherine said nothing. The police had
laid no injunctions of secrecy upon her, and
it was clearly impossible to suppress the bare
facts or try to keep them from her hostess.
But she did rather wish it had been possible
to do so.
"Yes," said Lady Tamplin, coming suddenly
out of her reverie, "I do think something
might be done. A little account, you
know, cleverly written up. An eyewitness, a
feminine touch: 'How I chatted with the dead
woman, little thinking--) that sort of thing,
you know."
"Rot!" said Lenox.
"You have no idea," said Lady Tamplin
in a soft, wistful voice, "what newspapers
will pay for a little titbit! Written, of course,
by some one of really unimpeachable social
position. You would not like to do it yourself, I dare say, Katherine dear, but just gn^ me the bare bones of it, and I will manage the whole thing for you. Mr. de Haviland 1s a special friend of mine. We have a littis
understanding together. A most delightful
man---1101 at a^ rePorterish. How does the
idea strike you, Katherine?"
"I would much prefer to do nothing of the kind," said Katherine bluntly.
Lady Tamplin was rather disconcerted at
this uncompromising refusal. She sighed and
turned to the elucidation of further details.
"A very striking-looking woman, you
said? I wonder now who she could have
been. You didn't hear her name?"
"It was mentioned," Katherine admitted, "but I can't remember it. You see, I was
rather upset."
"I should think so," said Mr. Evans; "it
must have been a beastly shock."
It is to be doubted whether, even if Katherine
had remembered the name, she would
have admitted the fact. Lady Tamplin's remorseless
cross-examination was making her
restive. Lenox, who was observant in her
own way, noticed this, and offered to take Katherine upstairs to see her room. She left
her there, remarking kindly before she went:
You mustn't mind Mother; she would ^ake a few pennies' profit out of her dying S^ndmother if she could."
Lenox went down again to find her mother an(! her stepfather discussing the newcomer.
"Presentable," said Lady Tamplin
"quite presentable. Her clothes are all right' That grey thing is the same model that
Gladys Cooper wore in Palm Trees in Egypt"
"Have you noticed her eyes--what?" interposed
Mr. Evans.
"Never mind her eyes. Chubby," said
Lady Tamplin tartly; "we are discussing the
things that really matter."
"Oh, quite," said Mr. Evans, and retired
into his shell.
"She doesn't seem to me very--malleable,"
said Lady Tamplin, rather hesitating
to choose the right word.
"She has all the instincts of a lady, as they
say in books," said Lenox, with a grin.
"Narrow-minded," murmured Lady Tamplin.
"Inevitable under the circumstances, I
suppose."
"I expect you will do your best to broaden
her," said Lenox, with a grin, "but you will
have your work cut out. Just now, you noticed, she stuck down her fore feet and laid
back her ears and refused to budge."
"Anyway," said Lady Tamplin hopefully? "she doesn't look to me at all mean. Som^ people, when they come into money, seem
to attach undue importance to it."
"Oh, you'll easily touch her for what you
want," said Lenox; "and, after all, that is
all that matters, isn't it? That is what she is
here for."
"She is my own cousin," said Lady Tamplin,
with dignity.
"Cousin, eh?" said Mr. Evans, waking up
again. "I suppose I call her Katherine, don't
I?" "It is of no importance at all what you call
her, Chubby," said Lady Tamplin.
"Good," said Mr. Evans; "then I will. Do
you suppose she plays tennis?" he added
hopefully.
"Of course not," said Lady Tamplin.
"She has been a companion, I tell you. Companions
don't play tennis--or golf. They
might possibly play golf-croquet, but I have
always understood that they wind wool and
wash dogs most of the day."
"0 God!" said Mr. Evans; "do they
really?"
Lenox drifted upstairs again to Katherine's
room. "Can I help you?" she asked
rather perfunctorily.
On Katherine's disclaimer, Lenox sat on
the edge of the bed and stared thoughtfully at her guest.
"Why did you come?" she said at last. "To us? I mean. We're not your sort."
"Oh, I am anxious to get into Society."
"Don't be an ass," said Lenox promptly
detecting the flicker of a smile. "You know what I mean well enough. You are not a bit
what I thought you would be. I say, you have got some decent clothes." She sighed. "Clothes are no good to me. I was born awkward.
Ifs a pity, because I love them."
"I love them too," said Katherine, "but
it has not been much use my loving them up
to now. Do you think this is nice?"
She and Lenox discussed several models
with artistic fervour.
"I like you," said Lenox suddenly. "I
came up to warn you not to be taken in by
Mother, but I think now that there is no
need to do that. You are frightfully sincere
and upright and all those queer things, but
you are not a fool. Oh hell! what is it now?"
Lady Tamplin's voice was calling plaintively
from the hall:
"Lenox, Derek has just rung up. He
wants to come to dinner to-night. Will it be
all right? I mean, we haven't got anything
awkward, like quails, have we?"
Lenox reassured her and came back into
Katherine5 s room. Her face looked brighter
and less sullen.
"I'm glad old Derek is coming," she said;
"you'll like him."
"Who is Derek?"
"He is Lord Leconbury's son, married a
rich American woman. Women are simply
potty about him."
"Why?"
"Oh, the usual reason--very good-looking
and a regular bad lot. Every one goes off
their head about him."
"Do you?"
"Sometimes I do," said Lenox, "and
sometimes I think I would like to marry a
nice curate and live in the country and grow
things in frames." She paused a minute, and
then added, "An Irish curate would be best, and then I should hunt."
After a minute or two she reverted to her
former theme. "There is something queer
about Derek. All that family are a bit
potty--mad gamblers, you know. In the old days they used to gamble away their wives ^d their estates, and did most reckless ^ings just for the love of it. Derek would have made a perfect highwayman--debonair ^d gay, just the right manner." She moved to the door. "Well, come down when you ^1 like it."
Left alone, Katherine gave herself up to
thought. Just at present she felt thoroughly
ill at ease and jarred by her surroundings.
The shock of the discovery in the train and
the reception of the news by her new friends
jarred upon her susceptibilities. She thought
long and earnestly about the murdered
woman. She had been sorry for Ruth, but
she could not honestly say that she had liked
her. She had divined only too well the ruthless
egoism that was the keynote of her personality, and it repelled her.
She had been amused and a trifle hurt by
the other's cool dismissal of her when she
had served her turn. That she had come to
some decision, Katherine was quite certain,
but she wondered now what that decision
had been. Whatever it was, death had
stepped in and made all decisions meaningless.
Strange that it should have been so, and
that a brutal crime should have been the
ending of that fateful journey. But suddenly
Katherine remembered a small fact that she
ought, perhaps, to have told the police--a
fact that had for the moment escaped her
memory. Was it of any real importance? She
had certainly thought that she had seen a man going into that particular compartment? but she realized that she might easily have
been mistaken. It might have been the coinnartinent next door, and certainly the man
in question could be no train robber. She
recalled him very clearly as she had seen him
on those two previous occasions--once at the
Savoy and once at Cook's office. No, doubtless
she had been mistaken. He had not gone
into the dead woman's compartment, and it
was perhaps as well that she had said nothing
to the police. She might have done incalculable
harm by doing so.
She went down to join the others on the
terrace outside. Through the branches of mimosa, she looked out over the blue of the
Mediterranean, and, whilst listening with
half an ear to Lady Tamplin's chatter, she
was glad that she had come. This was better
than St. Mary Mead.
That evening she put on the mauvy pink
dress that went by the name of soupir d'automne, and after smiling at her reflection in
the mirror, went downstairs with, for the first time in her life, a faint feeling of shyness.

Most of Lady Tamplin's guests had ar- ^ed, and since noise was the essential of
Lady Tamplin's parties, the din was already Critic. Chubby rushed up to Katherine, Passed a cocktail upon her, and took her ^tfcr his wing.
B 1 -»rt
"Oh, here you are, Derek," cried Lady Tamplin, as the door opened to admit the
last corner. "Now at last we can have something
to eat. I am starving."
Katherine looked across the room. She
was startled. So this--was Derek, and she
realized that she was not surprised. She had
always known that she would some day meet
the man whom she had seen three times by
such a curious chain of coincidences. She
thought, too, that he recognized her. He
paused abruptly in what he was saying to
Lady Tamplin, and went on again as though
with an effort. They all went in to dinner,
and Katherine found that he was placed beside
her. He turned to her at once with a
vivid smile.
"I knew I was going to meet you soon,"
he remarked, "but I never dreamt that it
would be here. It had to be, you know. Once
at the Savoy and once at Cook's--never
twice without three times. Don't say you
can't remember me or never noticed me. 1
insist upon your pretending that you noticed
me, anyway."
"Oh, I did," said Katherine; "but this is
not the third time. It is the fourth. I saw yo11 on the Blue Train."
"On the Blue Train!" Something undefinable came over his manner; she could not
have said just what it was. It was as though
he had received a check, a setback. Then he
said carelessly:
"What was the rumpus this morning?
Somebody had died, hadn't they?"
"Yes," said Katherine slowly; "somebody
had died."
"You shouldn't die on a train," remarked
Derek flippantly. "I believe it causes all sorts
of legal and international complications, and
it gives the train an excuse for being even
later than usual."
"Mr. Kettering?" A stout American lady,
who was sitting opposite, leaned forward and
spoke to him with the deliberate intonation
other race. "Mr. Kettering, I do believe you
have forgotten me, and I thought you such
a perfectly lovely man."
Derek leaned forward, answering her, and
Katherine sat almost dazed.
Kettering! That was the name, of course!
"he remembered it now—but what a
^ange, ironical situation! Here was this
^n whom she had seen go into his wife's
^npartment last night, who had left her
^e and well, and now he was sitting at
^ner, quite unconscious of the fate that
1/11
had befallen her. Of that there was no doubt.
He did not know.
A servant was leaning over Derek, handing
him a note and murmuring in his ear.
With a word of excuse to Lady Tamplin, he
broke it open, and an expression of utter
astonishment came over his face as he read;
then he looked at his hostess.
"This is most extraordinary. I say, Rosalie, I am afraid I will have to leave you.
The Prefect of Police wants to see me at once.
I can't think what about."
"Your sins have found you out," remarked
Lenox.
"They must have," said Derek, "probably
some idiotic nonsense, but I suppose I shall
have to push off to the Prefecture. How dare
the old boy rout me out from dinner? It
ought to be something deadly serious to justify
that," and he laughed as he pushed back
his chair and rose to leave the room.
Chapter 13
Van Aldin Gets a Telegram
on the afternoon of the 15th February a
thick yellow fog had settled down on London.
Rufus Van Aldin was in his suite at the
Savoy and was making the most of the atmospheric
conditions by working double
time. Knighton was overjoyed. He had
found it difficult of late to get his employer
to concentrate on the matters in hand. When
he had ventured to urge certain courses. Van
Aldin had put him off with a curt word. But
now Van Aldin seemed to be throwing himself
into work with redoubled energy, and
the secretary made the most of his oppor^nities.
Always tactful, he plied the spur so ^obtrusively that Van Aldin never susPected
it.
Yet in the middle of this absorption in ^siness matters, one little fact lay at the ^k of Van Aldin's mind. A chance remark 01 Knighton's, uttered by the secretary in all
unconsciousness, had given rise to it. It no\v
festered unseen, gradually reaching further
and further forward into Van Aldin's consciousness, until at last, in spite of himself
he had to yield to its insistence.
He listened to what Knighton was saying
with his usual air of keen attention, but in
reality not one word of it penetrated his
mind. He nodded automatically, however, and the secretary turned to some other paper.
As he was sorting them out, his employer
spoke:
"Do you mind telling me that over again,
Knighton?"
For a moment Knighton was at a loss.
"You mean about this, sir?" He held up
a closely written Company report.
"No, no," said Van Aldin; "what you told
me about seeing Ruth's maid in Paris last
night. I can't make it out. You must have
been mistaken."
"I can't have been mistaken, sir, I actually
spoke to her."
"Well, tell me the whole thing again."
Knighton complied.
"I had fixed up the deal with Barther
mers," he explained, "and had gone back to
the Ritz to pick up my traps preparatory to having dinner and catching the nine o'cloo
rrain from the Gare du Nord. At the reception
desk I saw a woman whom I was quite
sure was Mrs. Kettering's maid. I went up
to her and asked if Mrs. Kettering was staying
there."
"Yes, yes," said Van Aldin. "Of course.
Naturally. And she told you that Ruth had
gone on to the Riviera and had sent her to
the Ritz to await further orders there?"
"Exactly that, sir."
"It is very odd," said Van Aldin. "Very
odd, indeed, unless the woman had been
impertinent or something of that kind."
"In that case," objected Knighton, "surely Mrs. Kettering would have paid her
down a sum of money, and told her to go
back to England. She would hardly have sent
her to the Ritz."
"No," muttered the millionaire; "that's
true."
He was about to say something further,
but checked himself. He was fond of Knigh- ton and liked and trusted him, but he could
hardly discuss his daughter's private affairs ^th his secretary. He had already felt hurt
°y Ruth's lack of frankness, and this chance Urination which had come to him did ^thing to allay his misgivings.
^hy had Ruth got rid of her maid in
1 AH
Paris? What possible object or motive could
she have had in so doing?
He reflected for a moment or two on the
curious combination of chance. How should
it have occurred to Ruth, except as the wildest
coincidence, that the first person that
the maid should run across in Paris should
be her father's secretary? Ah, but that was
the way things happened. That was the way
things got found out.
He winced at the last phrase, it had arisen
with complete naturalness to his mind. Was
there then "something to be found out"? He
hated to put this question to himself; he had
no doubt of the answer. The answer was--
he was sure of it--Armand de la Roche.
It was bitter to Van Aldin that a daughter
of his should be gulled by such a man, yet
he was forced to admit that she was in good
company--that other well-bred and intelligent
women had succumbed just as easily to I
the Count's fascination. Men saw through
him, women did not.
He sought now for a phrase that would
allay any suspicion that his secretary migh1
have felt.
"Ruth is always changing her mind about
things at a moment's notice," he remarked;
and then he added in a would-be carele^ .
rone^ ^The maid didn't give any--er--reason
for this change of plan?"
Knighton was careful to make his voice as
natural as possible as he replied:
"She said, sir, that Mrs. Kettering had
met a friend unexpectedly."
"Is that so?"
The secretary's practised ears caught the
note of strain underlying the seemingly casual
tone.
"Oh, I see. Man or woman?"
"I think she said a man, sir."
Van Aldin nodded. His worst fears were
being realized. He rose from his chair, and
began pacing up and down the room, a habit
of his when agitated. Unable to contain his
feelings any longer, he burst forth:
'There is one thing no man can do, and
that is to get a woman to listen to reason.
Somehow or other, they don't seem to have any kind of sense. Talk of woman's instinct --why, it is well known all the world over Aat a woman is the surest mark for any rascally
swindler. Not one in ten of them knows a scoundrel when she meets one; they can De preyed on by any good-looking fellow ^th a soft side to his tongue. If I had my
Way___"
He was interrupted. A page-boy entered
with a telegram. Van Aldin tore it open, and
his face went a sudden chalky white. He
caught hold of the back of a chair to steady
himself, and waved the page-boy from the
room.
"What's the matter, sir?"
Knighton had risen in concern.
"Ruth!" said Van Aldin hoarsely.
"Mrs. Kettering?"
"Killed!"
"An accident to the train?"
Van Aldin shook his head.
"No. From this it seems she has been
robbed as well. They don't use the word,
Knighton, but my poor girl has been murdered."

"Oh, my God, sir!"
Van Aldin tapped the telegram with his
forefinger.
"This is from the police at Nice. I must
go out there by the first train."
Knighton was efficient as ever. He glanced
at the clock.
"Five o'clock from Victoria, sir."
"That's right. You will come with m^ Knighton. Tell my man. Archer, and pack your own things. See to everything here. 1
want to go round to Curzon Street."
The telephone rang sharply, and the secretary
lilted the receiver.
"Yes; who is it?"
Then to Van Aldin.
"Mr. Goby, sir."
"Goby? I can't see him now. No--wait, we have plenty of time. Tell them to send
him up."
Van Aldin was a strong man. Already he
had recovered that iron calm of his. Few
people would have noticed anything amiss
in his greeting to Mr. Goby.
"I am pressed for time. Goby. Got anything
important to tell me?"
Mr. Goby coughed.
"The movements of Mr. Kettering, sir.
You wished them reported to you."
"Yes--well?"
"Mr. Kettering, sir, left London for the
Riviera yesterday morning."
"What?"
Something in his voice must have startled Mr. Goby. That worthy gentleman departed ^om his usual practice of never looking at "^ person to whom he was talking, and stole a fleeting glance at the millionaire.
What train did he go on?" demanded ^n Aldin.
'The Blue Train, sir."
<('
1 AC\
Mr. Goby coughed again and spoke to the v
clock on the mantelpiece. •
"Mademoiselle Mirelle, the dancer froiJ
the Parthenon, went by the same train." I
Chapter 14
Ada Mason's Story
"I cannot repeat to you often enough. Monsieur, our horror, our consternation, and the
deep sympathy we feel for you."
Thus M. Carrege, the Juge dTnstruction, addressed Van Aldin. M. Caux, the Commissary, made sympathetic noises in his
throat. Van Aldin brushed away horror, consternation, and sympathy with an abrupt
gesture. The scene was the Examining Magistrate's
room at Nice. Besides M. Carrege, the Commissary, and Van Aldin, there was a further person in the room. It was that
Person who now spoke.
"M. Van Aldin," he said, "desires action ^swift action."
Ah!" cried the Commissary, "I have not yet presented you. M. Van Aldin, this is M.
j^rcule Poirot; you have doubtless heard of
lln- Although he has retired from his ^fession for some years now, his name is
still a household word as one of the greatest
living detectives."
"Pleased to meet you, M. Poirot," said
Van Aldin, falling back mechanically on a
formula that he had discarded some years
ago. "You have retired from your profession?"

"That is so, Monsieur. Now I enjoy the
world."
The little man made a grandiloquent gesture.

"M. Poirot happened to be travelling on
the Blue Train," explained the Commissary,
"and he has been so kind as to assist us out
of his vast experience."
The millionaire looked at Poirot keenly.
Then he said unexpectedly.:
"I am a very rich man, M. Poirot. It is
usually said that a rich man labours under
the belief that he can buy everything and
every one. That is not true. I am a big man
in my way, and one big man can ask a favour
from another big man."
Poirot nodded a quick appreciation.
"That is very well said, M. Van Aldin. I place myself entirely at your service."
"Thank you," said Van Aldin. "I can only saw call upon me at any time, and you w111
not find me ungrateful. And now, gentlemen,
to business."
"I propose," said M. Carrege, "to interrogate
the maid, Ada Mason. You have her
here, I understand?"
"Yes," said Van Aldin. "We picked her
up in Paris in passing through. She was very
upset to hear of her mistress's death, but she
tells her story coherently enough."
"We will have her in, then," said M. Carrege.
He
rang the bell on his desk, and in a few
minutes Ada Mason entered the room.
She was very neatly dressed in black, and
the tip of her nose was red. She had exchanged
her grey travelling gloves for a pair
of black suede ones. She cast a look round
the Examining Magistrate's office in some
trepidation, and seemed relieved at the presence
of her mistress's father. The Examining
Magistrate prided himself on his geniality of manner, and did his best to put her at her ^se. He was helped in this by Poirot, who ^ted as interpreter, and whose friendly banner was reassuring to the English- ^man.
^Your name is Ada Mason; is that right?"
Ada Beatrice I was christened, sir," said "^on primly.
fcl E
"Just so. And we can understand, Mason
that this has all been very distressing."
"Oh, indeed it has, sir. I have been with
many ladies and always given satisfaction, I
hope, and I never dreamt of anything of this
kind happening in any situation where I
was."
"No, no," said M. Carrege.
"Naturally I have read of such things, of
course, in the Sunday papers. And then I
always have understood that those foreign
trains----" She suddenly checked her flow,
remembering that the gentlemen who were
speaking to her were of the same nationality
as the trains.
"Now let us talk this affair over," said M.
Carrege. "There was, I understand, no question
of your staying in Paris when you started
from London?"
"Oh no, sir. We were to go straight
through to Nice."
"Have you ever been abroad with your
mistress before?"
"No, sir. I had only been with her two
months, you see."
"Did she seem quite as usual when starting
on this journey?"
"She was worried like and a bit upset, an^
was rather irritable and difficult to
she
please."
M. Carrege nodded.
"Now then. Mason, what was the first you
heard of your stopping in Paris?"
"It was at the place they call the Gare de
Lyon, sir. My mistress was thinking of getting
out and walking up and down the platform.
She was just going out into the
corridor when she gave a sudden exclamation, and came back into her compartment
with a gentleman. She shut the door between
her carriage and mine, so that I didn't see
or hear anything, till she suddenly opened it
again and told me that she had changed her
plans. She gave me some money and told me
to get out and go to the Ritz. They knew
her well there, she said, and would give me
a room. I was to wait there until I heard
from her, she would wire me what she
wanted me to do. I had just time to get my
things together and jump out of the train
before it started off. It was a rush."
"While Mrs. Kettering was telling you
this, where was the gentleman?"
"He was standing in the other compart- ^nt, sir, looking out of the window."
t "Can you describe him to us?"
I 'Well, you see, sir, I hardly saw him. He
had his back to me most of the time. He was
a tall gentleman and dark; that's all I can
say. He was dressed very like any other
gentleman in a dark blue overcoat and a grey
hat."
"Was he one of the passengers on the
train?"
"I don't think so, sir; I took it that he had
come to the station to see Mrs. Kettering in
passing through. Of course he might have
been one of the passengers; I never thought
of that."
Mason seemed a little flurried by the suggestion.

"Ahl" M. Carrege passed lightly to another
subject. "Your mistress later requested
the conductor not to rouse her early in the
morning. Was that a likely thing for her to
do, do you think?"
"Oh yes, sir. The mistress never ate any
breakfast and she didn't sleep well at nights,
so that she liked sleeping on in the morning."

Again M. Carrege passed to another subject.

"Amongst the luggage there was a scarlet
morocco case, was there not?" he asked. "Your mistress's jewel-case?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you take that case to the Ritz?"
^Me take the mistress's jewel-case to the
Ritz! Oh no, indeed, sir." Mason's tones
were horrified.
"You left it behind you in the carriage?"
"Yes, sir."
"Had your mistress many jewels with her, do you know?"
"A fair amount, sir; made me a bit uneasy
sometimes, I can tell you, with those nasty
tales you hear of being robbed in foreign
countries. They were insured, I know, but
all the same it seemed a frightful risk. Why, the rubies alone, the mistress told me, were
worth several hundred thousand pounds."
"The rubies! What rubies?" barked Van
Aldin suddenly.
Mason turned to him.
"I think it was you who gave them to her, sir, not very long ago."
"My God!" cried Van Aldin. "You don't ^y she had those rubies with her? I told her to leave them at the Bank."
Mason gave once more the discreet cough ^ich was apparently part of her stock-in^ade
as a lady's maid. This time it expressed a good deal. It expressed far more clearly ^an words could have done, that Mason's
mistress had been a lady who took her own
way.
"Ruth must have been mad," muttered
Van Aldin. "What on earth could have possessed
her?"
M. Carrege in turn gave vent to a cough, again a cough of significance. It riveted Van
Aldin's attention on him.
"For the moment," said M. Carrege, addressing
Mason, "I think that is all. If you
will go into the next room, Mademoiselle,
they will read over to you the questions and
answers, and you will sign accordingly."
Mason went out escorted by the clerk, and
Van Aldin said immediately to the Magistrate:

"Well?"
M. Carrege opened a drawer in his desk,
took out a letter, and handed it across to Van
Aldin.
"This was found in Madame's handbag.
?5
"ch^re amie" (the letter ran),-- "I
will obey you, I will be prudent, discreet--all those things that a lover
most hates. Paris would perhaps have
been unwise, but the Isles d'Or are far
away from the world, and you may be
assured that nothing will leak out. It is
like y011 anc^ your divine sympathy to be
so interested in the work on famous jewels
that I am writing. It will, indeed, be
an extraordinary privilege to actually see
and handle these historic rubies. I am
devoting a special passage to 'Heart of
Fire.' My wonderful one! Soon I will
make up to you for all those sad years of
separation and emptiness.--Your everadoring,
"armand."
Chapter 15
The Comte De La Roche
van aldin read the letter through in silence.
His face turned a dull angry crimson. The
men watching him saw the veins start out
on his forehead, and his big hands clench
themselves unconsciously. He handed back
the letter without a word. M. Carrege was
looking with close attention at his desk, M.
Caux's eyes were fixed upon the ceiling, and
M. Hercule Poirot was tenderly brushing a
speck of dust from his coat sleeve. With the
greatest tact they none of them looked at Van
Aldin.
It was M. Carrege, mindful of his status
and his duties, who tackled the unpleasant
subject.
"Perhaps, Monsieur," he murmured,
"you are aware by whom--er--this letter
was written?"
"Yes, I know," said Van Aldin heavily. "Ah?" said the Magistrate inquiringly"A scoundrel who calls himself the Comte
je la Roche."
There was a pause; then M. Poirot leaned
forward, straightened a ruler on the judge's
desk, and addressed the millionaire directly.
"M. Van Aldin, we are all sensible, deeply
sensible, of the pain it must give you to speak
of these matters, but believe me. Monsieur,
it is not the time for concealments. If justice
is to be done, we must know everything. If
you will reflect a little minute you will realize
the truth of that clearly for yourself."
Van Aldin was silent for a moment or two,
then almost reluctantly he nodded his head
in agreement.
"You are quite right, M. Poirot," he said.
"Painful as it is, I have no right to keep
anything back."
The Commissary gave a sigh of relief, and
the Examining Magistrate leaned back in his
^air and adjusted a pince-nez on his long
Am nose.
"Perhaps you will tell us in your own
^rds, M. Van Aldin," he said, "all that you
know of this gentleman."
"It began eleven or twelve years ago—in
^aris. My daughter was a young girl then,
^ of foolish, romantic notions, like all
Young girls are. Unknown to me, she made
fc. i m , ^ i
the acquaintance of this Comte de la ro( he.
You have heard of him, perhaps?"
The Commissary and Poirot nodded in assent.

"He calls himself the Comte de la Roche," continued Van Aldin, "but I doubt if he has
any right to the title."
55
"You would not have found his name in
the Almanac de Goiha," agreed the Commissary.

"I discovered as much," said Van Aldin.
"The man was a good-looking, plausible
scoundrel, with a fatal fascination for
women. Ruth was infatuated with him, but
I soon put a stop to the whole affair. The
man was no better than a common swindler."

"You are quite right," said the Commissary.
"The Comte de la Roche is well known
to us. If it were possible, we should have
laid him by the heels before now, but wa
foil it is not easy; the fellow is cunning, his
affairs are always conducted with ladies of
high social position. If he obtains money
from them under false pretences or as the
fruit of blackmail, eh bien! naturally they will
not prosecute. To look foolish in the eyes oi
the world, oh no, that would never do, and he has an extraordinary power over women.
"That is so," said the millionaire heavily. ((^ell? as I told you, I broke the affair up
nretty sharply. I told Ruth exactly what he was, and she had, perforce, to believe me.
About a year afterwards, she met her present
husband and married him. As far as I knew, that was the end of the matter; but only a
week ago, I discovered, to my amazement, that my daughter had resumed her acquaintance
with the Comte de la Roche. She had
been meeting him frequently in London and
Paris. I remonstrated with her on her imprudence, for I may tell you gentlemen, that, on my insistence, she was preparing to bring
a suit for divorce against her husband."
"That is interesting," murmured Poirot
softly, his eyes on the ceiling.
Van Aldin looked at him sharply, and then
went on.
"I pointed out to her the folly of continuing
to see the Comte under the circumstances.
I thought she agreed with me."
The Examining Magistrate coughed delicately.

"But according to this letter----" he be- S^and then stopped.
Van Aldin's jaw set itself squarely.
I know. It's no good mincing matters. However unpleasant, we have got to face
facts. It seems clear that Ruth had arranged
to go to Paris and meet de la Roche there.
After my warnings to her, however, she must
have written to the Count suggesting a
change of rendezvous."
"The Isles d'Or," said the Commissary
thoughtfully, "are situated just opposite
Hyeres, a remote and idyllic spot."
Van Aldin nodded.
"My God! How could Ruth be such a
fool?" he exclaimed bitterly. "All this talk
about writing a book on jewels! Why, he
must have been after the rubies from the
first."
"There are some very famous rubies,"
said Poirot, "originally part of the Crown
jewels of Russia; they are unique in character, and their value is almost fabulous.
There has been a rumour that they have
lately passed into the possession of an American.
Are we right in concluding. Monsieur,
that you were the purchaser?"
"Yes," said Van Aldin. "They came imo
my possession in Paris about ten days ago.'
"Pardon me, Monsieur, but you have been negotiating for their purchase for some
time?"
"A little over two months. Why?"
"These things become known," said
poirot. "There is always a pretty formidable
crowd on the track of jewels such as these."
A spasm distorted the other's face.
"I remember," he said brokenly, "a joke
I made to Ruth when I gave them to her. I
told her not to take them to the Riviera with
her, as I could not afford to have her robbed
and murdered for the sake of the jewels. My
God! the things one says--never dreaming
or knowing they will come true."
There was a sympathetic silence, and then
Poirot spoke in a detached manner.
"Let us arrange our facts with order and
precision. According to our present theory, this is how they run. The Comte de la Roche
knows of your purchase of these jewels. By
an easy stratagem he induces Madame Kettering
to bring the stones with her. He, then, is the man Mason saw in the train at Paris."
The other three nodded in agreement.
"Madame is surprised to see him, but she
deals with the situation promptly. Mason is
got out of the way; a dinner basket is ordered.
We know from the conductor that he "^de up the berth for the first compartment,
^t he did not go into the second compart- ^nt, and that a man could quite well have "^n concealed from him. So far the Comte ^Id have been hidden to a marvel. No
one knows of his presence on the train except
Madame, he has been careful that the maid
did not see his face. All that she could say
is that he was tall and dark. It is all most
conveniently vague. They are alone--and
the train rushes through the night. There
would be no outcry, no struggle, for the man
is, so she thinks, her lover."
He turned gently to Van Aldin.
"Death, Monseiur, must have been almost
instantaneous. We will pass over that
quickly. The Comte takes the jewel-case
which lies ready to his hand. Shortly afterwards
the train draws into Lyons."
M. Carrege nodded his approval.
"Precisely. The conductor without descends.
It would be easy for our man to leave
the train unseen; it would be easy to catch
a train back to Paris or anywhere he pleases.
And the crime would be put down as an
ordinary train robbery. But for the letter
found in Madame's bag, the Comte would
not have been mentioned."
"It was an oversight on his part not to
search that bag," declared the Commissary.
I
"Without doubt he thought she had destroyed
that letter. It was--pardon m^ |
Monsieur--it was an indiscretion of the first
water to keep it."
"And yet," murmured Poirot, "it was an
indiscretion the Comte might have fore?5
seen. "You mean?"
"I mean we are all agreed on one point, and that is that the Comte de la Roche knows
one subject a fond: Women. How was it that, knowing women as he does, he did not foresee
that Madame would have kept that letter?"

"Yes--yes," said the Examining Magistrate
doubtfully, "there is something in what
you say. But at such times, you understand, a man is not master of himself. He does not
reason calmly. Mon Dieu!" he added, with
feeling, "if our criminals kept their heads
and acted with intelligence, how should we
capture them?"
Poirot smiled to himself.
"It seems to me a clear case," said the ^her, "but a difficult one to prove. The ^onite is a slippery customer, and unless ^ maid can identify him----"
''Which is most unlikely," said Poirot.
'True, true." The Examining Magistrate ^bed his chin. "It is going to be difficult."
"If he did indeed commit the crime--^ began Poirot. M. Caux interrupted.
"If--you say if?9'
"Yes, Monsieur Ie Juge, I say if."
The other looked at him sharply. "You
are right," he said at last, "we go too fast.
It is possible that the Comte may have an
alibi. Then we should look foolish."
"Ah, qa par exemple," replied Poirot, "that
is of no importance whatever. Naturally, if
he committed the crime he will have an alibi.
A man with the Comte's experience does not
neglect to take precautions. No, I said if for
a very different reason."
"And what was that?"
Poirot wagged an emphatic forefinger.
"The psychology."
"Eh?" said the Commissary.
"The psychology is at fault. The Comte
is a scoundrel--yes. The Comte is a
swindler--yes. The Comte preys upon
women--yes. He proposes to steal Madame's
jewels--again yes. Is he the kind of
man to commit murder? I say no! A man of
the type of the Comte is always a coward;
he takes no risks. He plays the safe, the
mean, what the English call the lowdown
game; but murder, a hundred times no!" HE shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
The Examining Magistrate, however, did
.,ot seem disposed to agree with him.
"The day always comes when such gentry
lose their heads and go too far," he observed
sagely. "Doubtless that is the case here.
Without wishing to disagree with you, M.
poirot——"
"It was only an opinion," Poirot hastened
to explain. "The case is, of course, in your
hands, and you will do what seems fit to
you."
"I am satisfied in my own mind that the
Comte de la Roche is the man we need to
get hold of," said M. Carrege. "You agree
with me. Monsieur Ie Commissaire?
"Perfectly."
"And you, M. Van Aldin?"
"Yes," said the millionaire. "Yes, the man
is a thorough-paced villain, no doubt about
it."
"It will be difficult to lay hands on him,
I am afraid," said the Magistrate, "but we
^11 do our best. Telegraphed instructions
shall go out at once."
^ "Permit me to assist you," said Poirot.
'There need be no difficulty."
"Eh?"
The others stared at him. The little man
^iled beamingly back at them.
fc I I
"It is my business to know things." he
explained. "The Comte is a man of intelligence.
He is at present at a villa he has
leased, the Villa Marina at Antibes."
Chapter 16
Poirot Discusses the Case
everybody looked respectfully at Poirot.
Undoubtedly the little man had scored heavily.
The Commissary laughed--on a rather
hollow note.
"You teach us all our business," he cried.
"M. Poirot knows more than the police."
Poirot gazed complacently at the ceiling, adopting a mock-modest air.
"What will you; it is my little hobby," he murmured, "to know things. Naturally I
have the time to indulge it. I am not overburdened
with affairs."
"Ah!" said the Commissary shaking his ^ead portentously. "As for me----"
He made an exaggerated gesture to rep- ^sent the cares that lay on his shoulders.
Poirot turned suddenly to Van Aldin.
"You agree. Monsieur, with this view? you feel certain that the Comte de la Roche
is ^ murderer?"
L . I I
"Why, it would seem so--yes, certain y."
Something guarded in the answer made
the Examining Magistrate look at the American
curiously. Van Aldin seemed aware of
his scrutiny and made an effort as though to
shake off some preoccupation.
"What about my son-in-law?" he asked.
"You have acquainted him with the news? He is in Nice, I understand."
"Certainly, Monsieur." The Commissary
hesitated, and then murmured very discreetly:
"You are doubtless aware, M. Van
Aldin, that M. Kettering was also one of the
passengers on the Blue Train that night?"
The millionaire nodded.
"Heard it just before I left London," he
vouchsafed laconically.
"He tells us," continued the Commissary,
"that he had no idea his wife was travelling
on the train."
"I bet he hadn't," said Van Aldin grimly.
"It would have been rather a nasty shock to
him if he'd come across her on it."
The three men looked at him questioningly.
^
"I'm not going to mince matters," saifl Van Aldin savagely. "No one knows what
my poor girl has had to put up with. Dere^
Kettering wasn't alone. He had a lady with
him." "Ah?" "Mirelle--the dancer."
M. Carrege and the Commissary looked
at each other and nodded as though confirming
some previous conversation. M. Carrege
leaned back in his chair, joined his hands, and fixed his eyes on the ceiling.
"Ah!" he murmured again. "One wondered."
He coughed. "One has heard rumours."
"The lady," said ,M. Caux, "is very notorious."
"And also," murmured Poirot softly,
"very expensive."
Van Aldin had gone very red in the face.
He leant forward and hit the table a bang
with his fist.
"See here," he cried, "my son-in-law is a
damned scoundrel!"
He glared at them, looking from one face ^ another.
"Oh, I know," he went on. "Good looks ^d a charming, easy manner. It took me in
°nce upon a time. I suppose he pretended 0 be broken-hearted when you broke the
^Ws to him--that is, if he didn't know it ^ready.55
"Oh, it came as a complete surprise to
him. He was overwhelmed."
"Darned young hypocrite," said Van Aldin.
"Simulated great grief, I suppose?"
"N--no," said the Commissary cautiously.
"I would not quite say that--eh, M
Carrege?"
The Magistrate brought the tips of his fingers
together, and half closed his eyes.
"Shock, bewilderment, horror--these
things, yes," he declared judicially. "Great
sorrow--no--I should not say that."
Hercule Poirot spoke once more.
"Permit me to ask, M. Van Aldin, does
M. Kettering benefit by the death of his
wife?"
"He benefits to the tune of a couple of
millions," said Van Aldin.
"Dollars?"
"Pounds. I settled that sum on Ruth absolutely
on her marriage. She made no will
and leaves no children, so the money will g°
to her husband."
"Whom she was on the point of divorcing,"
murmured Poirot. "Ah, yes--precise'
ment" .
The Commissary turned and looked sharply at him.
"Do you mean----" he began.
<<I mean nothing," said Poirot. "I arrange the facts, that is all."
Van Aldin stared at him with awakening
interest.
The little man rose to his feet.
<<I do not think I can be of any further
service to you, M. Ie Juge," he said politely, bowing to M. Carrege. "You will keep me
itbrmed of the course of events? It will be
aKindness."
f"But certainly--most certainly."
Van Aldin rose also.
"You don't want me any more at present?"

"No, Monsieur; we have all the information
we need for the moment."
"Then I will walk a little way with M.
Pjirot. That is, if he does not object?"
Enchanted, Monsieur," said the little
Bin, with a bow.
|van Aldin lighted a large cigar, having ^t offered one to Poirot, who declined it ^d lit one of his own tiny cigarettes. A man
°fl great strength of character. Van Aldin al- ^ady appeared to be his everyday, normal W once more. After strolling along for a Minute or two in silence, the millionaire
^oke:
r
I
"I take it, M. Poirot, that you no longer
exercise your profession?"
"That is so. Monsieur. I enjoy the world."
"Yet you are assisting the police in this
affair?"
"Monsieur, if a doctor walks along the
street and an accident happens, does he say, 'I have retired from my profession, I will
continue my walk,5 when there is some one
bleeding to death at his feet? If I had been
already in Nice, and the police had sent to
me and asked me to assist them, I should
have refused. But this affair, the good God
thrust it upon me."
"You were on the spot," said Van Aldin
thoughtfully. "You examined the compartment,
did you not?"
Poirot nodded.
"Doubtless you found things that were,
shall we say, suggestive to you?"
"Perhaps," said Poirot.
"I hope you see what I am leading up to?
said Van Aldin. "It seems to me that the case
against this Comte de la Roche is perfectly
clear, but I am not a fool. 1 have been watching
you for this last hour or so, and I really that for some reason of your own you don t
agree with that theory?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"I may be wrong."
"So we come to the favour I want to ask you. Will you act in this matter for me?"
"For you personally?"
"That was my meaning."
poirot was silent for a moment or two.
Then he said:
"You realize what you are asking?"
"I guess so," said Van Aldin.
"Very well," said Poirot. "I accept. But
in that case, I must have frank answers to
my questions."
"Why, certainly. That is understood."
Poirot's manner changed. He became suddenly
brusque and businesslike.
"This question of a divorce," he said. "It
was you who advised your daughter to bring
the suit?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"About ten days ago. I had had a letter from her complaining of her husband's behaviour, and I put it to her very strongly that divorce was the only remedy."
In what way did she complain of his be- ^viour?"
He was being seen about with a very no- ^lous lady--the one we have been speaking ^-Mirelle."
"The dancer. Ah-ha! And Madame Ket< tering objected? Was she very devoted to her
husband?"
"I would not say that," said Van Aldin
hesitating a little.
"It was not her heart that suffered, it was
her pride--is that what you would say?"
"Yes, I suppose you might put it like
that."
"I gather that the marriage had not been
a happy one from the beginning?"
"Derek Kettering is rotten to the core,"
said Van Aldin. "He is incapable of making
any woman happy."
"He is, as you say in England, a bad lot.
That is right, is it not?"
Van Aldin nodded.
^Tres bien! You advise Madame to seek a
divorce, she agrees; you consult your solicitors.
When does M. Kettering get news of
what is in the wind?"
"I sent for him myself, and explained the
course of action I proposed to take."
"And what did he say?" murmured Poirot
softly.
Van Aldin's face darkened at the reinen1'
brance.
"He was infernally impudent."
I
"Excuse the question. Monsieur, but did
he ^er to ^le Comte de la Roche?"
"Not by name," growled the other unwillingly? "but he showed himself cognizant
of the affair."
"What, if I may ask, was M. Kettering's
financial position at the time?"
"How do you suppose I should know
that?" asked Van Aldin, after a very brief
hesitation.
"It seemed likely to me that you would
inform yourself on that point."
"Well--you are quite right, I did. I discovered
that Kettering was on the rocks."
"And now he has inherited two million
pounds! La me--it is a strange thing, is it
not?"
Van Aldin looked at him sharply.
"What do you mean?"
"I moralize," said Poirot. "I reflect, I ^eak the philosophy. But to return to where ^ were. Surely M. Kettering did not proPose
to allow himself to be divorced without ^king a fight for it?"
Van Aldin did not answer for a minute or tw0. then he said:
'I don't exactly know what his intentions
Were.'*
1 '~if\
"Did you hold any further communications
with him?"
Again a slight pause, then Van Aldin said1
"No."
Poirot stopped dead, took off his hat, and
held out his hand.
"I must wish you good-day. Monsieur. I
can do nothing for you."
"What are you getting at?" demanded Van
Aldin angrily.
"If you do not tell me the truth, I can do
nothing."
"I don't know what you mean."
"I think you do. You may rest assured, M. Van Aldin, that I know how to be discreet."
"Very well, then," said the millionaire.
"I'll admit that I was not speaking the truth
just now. I did have further communication
with my son-in-law."
"Yes?"
"To be exact, I sent my secretary, Major
Knighton, to see him, with instructions to
offer him the sum of one hundred thousand
pounds in cash if the divorce went through
undefended."
"A pretty sum of money," said Poirot appreciatively;
"and the answer of Monsie111" your son-in-law?"
"He sent back word that I could go to
hell " replied the millionaire succinctly.
"Ah!" said Poirot.
He betrayed no emotion of any kind. At
the moment he was engaged in methodically
recording facts.
"Monsieur Kettering has told the police
that he neither saw nor spoke to his wife on
the journey from England. Are you inclined
to believe that statement. Monsieur?"
"Yes, I am," said Van Aldin. "He would
take particular pains to keep out of her way, I should say."
"Why?"
"Because he had got that woman with
him."
"Mirelle?"
"Yes."
"How did you come to know that fact?"
"A man of mine, whom I had put on to watch him, reported to me that they had
both left by that train."
"I see," said Poirot. "In that case, as you ^id before, he would not be likely to attempt to hold any communication with Madame Uttering."
^he little man fell silent for some time.
^ Aldin did not interrupt his meditation.
L.^^RL
1^^^-------- 101
Chapter 17
An Aristocrat/c Gent/eman
"You have been to the Riviera before,
Georges?" said Poirot to his valet the following
morning.
George was an intensely English, rather
wooden-faced individual.
"Yes, sir. I was here two years ago when
I was in the service of Lord Edward Frampton."
"And
to-day," murmured his master,
"you are here with Hercule Poirot. How one
mounts in the world!"
The valet made no reply to this observation.
After a suitable pause he asked:
"The brown lounge suit, sir? The wind is
somewhat chilly today."
"There is a grease spot on the waistcoat, objected Poirot. "A morceau of Filet de soU
a laJeanette alighted there when I was lunch'
ing at the Ritz last Tuesday."
"There is no spot there now, sir," said
George reproachfully. "I have removed it."
^Tres bien!" said Poirot. "I am pleased
with you, Georges."
"Thank you, sir."
There was a pause, and then Poirot murmured
dreamily:
"Supposing, my good Georges, that you
had been born in the same social sphere as
your late master. Lord Edward Frampton--
that, penniless yourself, you had married an
extremely wealthy wife, but that that wife
proposed to divorce you, with excellent reasons, what would you do about it?"
"I should endeavour, sir," replied George, "to make her change her mind."
"By peaceful or by forcible methods?"
George looked shocked.
"You will excuse me, sir," he said, "but a gentleman of the aristocracy would not behave
like a Whitechapel coster. He would not do anything low."
"Would he not, Georges? I wonder now. ^H? perhaps you are right."
There was a knock on the door. George ^nt to it and opened it a discreet inch or w0. A low murmured colloquy went on, and yien the valet returned to Poirot. 'A note, sir."
Poirot took it. It was from M. Caux, the
Commissary of Police.
"We are about to interrogate the Corate
de la Roche. The Juge dTnstruction begs
that you will be present."
"Quickly, my suit, Georges' I must hasten
myself."
A quarter of an hour later, spick and span
in his brown suit, Poirot entered the Examining
Magistrate's room. M. Caux was
already there, and both he and M. Carrege
greeted Poirot with polite empressement.
"The affair is somewhat discouraging,"
murmured M. Caux.
"It appears that the Comte arrived in Nice
the day before the murder."
"If that is true, it will settle your affair
nicely for you," responded Poirot.
M. Carrege cleared his throat.
"We must not accept this alibi without
very cautious inquiry," he declared. He
struck the bell upon the table with his hand.
In another minute a tall dark man, exquisitely
dressed, with a somewhat haughty
cast of countenance, entered the room. So
very aristocratic-looking was the Count, that
it would have seemed sheer heresy even to
whisper that his father had been an obscure
corn-chandler in Nantes--which, as a m31'
rer of fact, was the case. Looking at him, one would have been prepared to swear that
innumerable ancestors of his must have perished
by the guillotine in the French Revolution.

"I am here, gentlemen," said the Count
haughtily. "May I ask why you wish to see
me?"
"Pray be seated,Monsieur Ie Comte," said
the Examining Magistrate politely. "It is the
affair of the death ofMadame Kettering that
we are investigating."
"The death of Madame Kettering? I do
not understand."
"You were--ahem!--acquainted with the
lady, I believe. Monsieur Ie Comte?"
"Certainly I was acquainted with her.
What has that to do with the matter?"
Sticking an eyeglass in his eye, he looked
coldly round the room, his glance resting longest on Poirot, who was gazing at him TOh a kind of simple, innocent admiration which was most pleasing to the Count's van- ^y- M. Carrege leaned back in his chair and beared his throat.
'You do not perhaps know. Monsieur Ie ^te^--he paused--"that Madame Ket- ^ng was murdered?"
'Murdered? Mon Dieu, how terrible!"
i nc
The surprise and the sorrow were excellently
done--so well done, indeed, as to » seem wholly natural.
"Madame Kettering was strangled between
Paris and Lyons," continued M. Carrege,
"and her jewels were stolen."
"It is iniquitous!" cried the Count
warmly; "the police should do something
about these train bandits. Nowadays no one
is safe."
"In Madame's handbag," continued the
Judge, "we found a letter to her from you.
She had, it seemed, arranged to meet you?"
The Count shrugged his shoulders and
spread out his hands.
"Of what use are concealments," he said
frankly. "We are all men of the world. Privately
and between ourselves, I admit the
affair."
"You met her in Paris and travelled down
with her, I believe?" said M. Carrege.
"That was the original arrangement, but
by Madame5 s wish it was changed. I was to
meet her at Hyeres."
"You did not meet her on the train at the
Gare de Lyon on the evening of the 14th.
"On the contrary, I arrived in Nice on the morning of that day, so what you suggest 1s impossible."
^
"Quite so, quite so," said M. Carrege. "As
a mat161* °^ f011111? Y011 would perhaps give
me an account of your movements during
the evening and night of the 14th."
The Count reflected for a minute.
"I dined in Monte Carlo at the Cafe de
Paris. Afterwards I went to the Le Sporting.
I won a few thousand francs," he shrugged
his shoulders. "I returned home at perhaps
one o'clock."
"Pardon me. Monsieur, but how did you
return home?"
"In my own two-seater car."
"No one was with you?"
"No one."
"You could produce witnesses in support
of this statement?"
"Doubtless many of my friends saw me
there that evening. I dined alone."
"Your servant admitted you on your return
to your villa?"
"I let myself in with my own latchkey."
Ah!" murmured the Magistrate.
Again he struck the bell on the table with ^s hand. The door opened, and a messenger Speared.
^ 'Bring in the maid. Mason," said M. Car-
^ge.
Very good. Monsieur le Juge."
«<
Ada Mason was brought in.
"Will you be so good. Mademoiselle, as
to look at this gentleman. To the best of your
ability was it he who entered your mistress's
compartment in Paris?"
The woman looked long and searchingly
at the Count, who was, Poirot fancied, rather
uneasy under this scrutiny.
"I could not say, sir, I am sure," said
Mason at last. "It might be and again it
might not. Seeing as how I only saw his back,
it's hard to say. I rather think it was the
gentleman."
"But you are not sure?"
"No--o," said Mason unwillingly, "n--
no, I am not sure."
"You have seen this gentleman before in
Curzon Street?"
Mason shook her head.
"I should not be likely to see any visitors
that come to Curzon Street," she explained,
"unless they were staying in the house."
"Very well, that will do," said the Examining
Magistrate sharply.
Evidently he was disappointed.
"One moment," said Poirot. "There is a question I would like to put to Mademoiselle,
if I may?"
"Certainly, M. Poirot--certainly, by all
means."
Poirot addressed himself to the maid.
"What happened to the tickets?"
"The tickets.sir?"
"Yes; the tickets from London to Nice.
Did you or your mistress have them?"
"The mistress had her own Pullman
ticket, sir; the others were in my charge."
"What happened to them?"
"I gave them to the conductor on the
French train, sir; he said it was usual. I hope
I did right, sir?"
"Oh, quite right, quite right. A mere matter
of detail."
Both M. Caux and the Examining Magistrate
looked at him curiously. Mason stood
uncertainly for a minute or two, and then
the Magistrate gave her a brief nod of dismissal, and she went out. Poirot scribbled
something on a scrap of paper and handed
it across to M. Carrege. The latter read it ^d his brow cleared.
"Well, gentlemen," demanded the Count ^ughtily, "am I to be detained further?"
"Assuredly not, assuredly not," M. Car- ^ge hastened to say, with a great deal of Liability. "Everything is now cleared up as ^gards your own position in this affair. Nat-
urally, in view of Madame's letter, we were
bound to question you."
The Count rose, picked up his handsome
stick from the corner, and, with rather a curt
bow, left the room.
"And that is that," said M. Carrege. "You
were quite right, M. Poirot—much better
to let him feel he is not suspected. Two of
my men will shadow him night and day, and
at the same time we will go into the question
of the alibi. It seems to me rather—er—a
fluid one."
"Possibly," agreed Poirot thoughtfully.
"I asked M. Kettering to come here
this morning." continued the Magistrate,
"though really I doubt if we have much to
ask him, but there are one or two suspicious
circumstances——" He paused, rubbing his
nose.
"Such as?" asked Poirot.
"Well"—the Magistrate coughed—"this
lady with whom he is said to be travelling
—Mademoiselle Mirelle. She is staying at
one hotel and he at another. That strikes
me—er—as rather odd."
"It looks," said M. Caux, "as though they
were being careful."
'Exactly," said M. Carrege triumphantly?
and what should they have to be careful
a
about?" "An excess of caution is suspicious, eh?"
said Poirot.
"Precisement."
"We might, I think," murmured Poirot, "ask M. Kettering one or two questions."
The Magistrate gave instructions. A moment
or two later, Derek Kettering, debonair
as ever, entered the room.
"Good morning. Monsieur," said the
Judge politely.
"Good morning," said Derek Kettering
curtly. "You sent for me. Has anything fresh
turned up?"
"Pray sit down. Monsieur."
Derek took a seat and flung his hat and
stick on the table.
"Well?" he asked impatiently.
"We have, so far, no fresh data," said M. Carrege cautiously.
"That's very interesting," said Derek
drily. "Did yoy ggi^ f^ ^g i^g iQ order
to tell me that?"
"We naturally thought. Monsieur, that ^n would like to be informed of the progress 01 the case," said the Magistrate severely.
'Even if the progress was nonexistent."
«i
"We also wished to ask you a few questions."
"Ask away."
"You are quite sure that you neither saw
nor spoke with your wife on the train?"
"I've answered that already. I did not." "You had, no doubt, your reasons."
Derek stared at him suspiciously.
"I--did--not--know--she--was--on--
the--train," he explained, spacing his words
elaborately, as though to some one dull of
intellect.
"That is what you say, yes," murmured
M. Carrege.
A frown suffused Derek5 s face.
"I should like to know what you're driving
at. Do you know what I think, M. Carrege?"
"What do you think, Monsieur?"
"I think the French police are vastly overrated.
Surely you must have some data as to
these gangs of train robbers. It's outrageous
J
that such a thing could happen on a train de
luxe like that, and that the French police should be helpless to deal with the matter. ,
"We are dealing with it, Monsieur, never
fear."
"Madame Kettering, I understand, did
not leave a will," interposed Poirot slid' ,
denly- His fingertips were joined together, and he was looking intently at the ceiling.
"I don't think she ever made one," said
Kettering. "Why?"
"It is a very pretty little fortune that you
inherit there," said Poirot--"a very pretty
little fortune."
Although his eyes were still on the ceiling, he managed to see the dark flush that rose
to Derek Kettering5 s face.
"What do you mean, and who are you?"
Poirot gently uncrossed his knees, withdrew
his gaze from the ceiling, and looked
the young man full in the face.
"My name is Hercule Poirot," he said quietly, "and I am probably the greatest detective
in the world. You are quite sure that
you did not see or speak to your wife on that
train?"
"What are you getting at? Do you--do
you mean to insinuate that I--I killed her?"
He laughed suddenly.
"I mustn't lose my temper, it's too palPably
absurd. Why, if I killed her I should have had no need to steal her jewels, would
A
kt That is true," murmured Poirot, with a
rather crestfallen air. "I did not think of
that.5'
"If ever there were a clear case of murder
and robbery, this is it," said Derek Kettering.
"Poor Ruth, it was those damned rubies
did for her. It must have got about she
had them with her. There has been murder
done for those same stones before now, I believe."

Poirot sat up suddenly in his chair. A very
faint green light glowed in his eyes. He
looked extraordinarily like a sleek, well-fed
cat.
"One more question, M. Kettering," he
said. "Will you give me the date when you
last saw your wife?"
"Let me see," Kettering reflected. "It
must have been--yes over three weeks ago.
I am afraid I can't give you the date exactly."

"No matter," said Poirot drily; "that is
all I wanted to know."
"Well," said Derek Kettering impatiently, "anything further?"
He looked towards M. Carrege. The latter
sought inspiration from Poirot, and received
it in a very faint shake of the head.
"No, M. Kettering," he said politely;
"no, I do not think we need trouble you any
further. I wish you good morning."
"Good morning," said Kettering. He vyent out, banging the door behind him.
poirot leaned forward and spoke sharply, as soon as the young man was out of the
room. "Tell me," he said peremptorily, "when
did you speak of these rubies to M. Kettering?"
"I have not spoken of them," said M. Car-
rege. "It was only yesterday afternoon that
we learnt about them from M. Van Aldin."
"Yes; but there was a mention of them in
the Comte's letter."
M. Carrege looked pained.
"Naturally I did not speak of that letter
to M. Kettering," he said in a shocked voice.
"It would have been most indiscreet at the
present juncture of affairs."
Poirot leaned forward and tapped the table.

"Then how did he know about them?" he demanded softly. "Madame could not
have told him, for he has not seen her for ^hree weeks. It seems unlikely that either M. Y^ Aldin or his secretary would have mentioned
them; their interviews with him have ^en on entirely different lines, and there uas not been any hint or reference to them
m ^e newspapers."
I, I
i r\f
He got up and took his hat and stick.
"And yet," he murmured to himself, "our
gentleman knows all about them. I wonder i
now, yes, I wonder!"
Chapter 18
Derek Lunches
derek kettering went straight to the Negresco,
where he ordered a couple of cocktails
and disposed of them rapidly; then he
stared moodily out over the dazzling blue
sea. He noted the passers-by mechanically
--a damned dull crowd, badly dressed, and
painfully uninteresting; one hardly ever saw
anything worth while nowadays. Then he
corrected this last impression rapidly, as a
woman placed herself at a table a little distance
away from him. She was wearing a marvellous
confection of orange and black, with a little hat that shaded her face. He ordered a ^ird cocktail; again he stared out to sea, and ^en suddenly he started. A well-known per- tiune assailed his nostrils, and he looked up
A " ----
[0 see the orange-and-black lady standing be- ^de him. He saw her face now, and recognized uer- It was Mirelle. She was smiling that in- ^lent, seductive smile he knew so well.
"Dereekl" she murmured. "You are
pleased to see me, no?"
She dropped into a seat the other side of
the table.
"But welcome me, then, stupid one," she
mocked.
"This is an unexpected pleasure," said
Derek. "When did you leave London?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"A day or two ago."
"And the Parthenon?"
"I have, how do you say it?--given them
the chuck!"
"Really?"
"You are not very amiable, Dereek."
"Do you expect me to be?"
Mirelle lit a cigarette and puffed at it for
a few minutes before saying:
"You think, perhaps, that it is not prudent
so soon?"
Derek stared at her, then he shrugged his
shoulders, and remarked formally:
"You are lunching here?"
"Mais oui. I am lunching with you."
"I am extremely sorry," said Derek. "I have a very important engagement."
"Mon Dieu! But you men are like children,"
exclaimed the dancer. "But yes, itls the spoilt child that you act to me, ever since
that day in London when you flung yourself
out of my flat, you sulk. Ah! mais c'est inoui!"
"My dear girl," said Derek, "I really don't
know what you are talking about. We agreed
in London that rats desert a sinking ship, that is all that there is to be said."
In spite of his careless words, his face
looked haggard and strained. Mirelle leaned
forward suddenly.
"You cannot deceive me," she murmured.
"I know--I know what you have done for
me."
He looked up at her sharply. Some undercurrent
in her voice arrested his attention.
She nodded her head at him.
"Ah! have no fear; I am discreet. You are
magnificent! You have a superb courage, but, all the same, it was I who gave you the
idea that day, when I said to you in London
that accidents sometimes happened. And
you are not in danger? The police do not
suspect you?"
"What the devil----"
"Hush!"
She held up a slim olive hand with one big herald on the little finger.
"You are right; I should not have spoken s0 ^ a public place. We will not speak of ule matter again, but our troubles are ended;
L . I
our life together will be wonderful--won
derful!"
Derek laughed suddenly--a harsh, disagreeable
laugh.
"So the rats come back, do they? Two
million makes a difference--of course h
does. I ought to have known that." He
laughed again. "You will help me to spend
that two million, won't you, Mirelle? You
know how, no woman better." He laughed
again.
"Hush!" cried the dancer. "What is the
matter with you, Dereek? See--people are
turning to stare at you."
"Me? I will tell you what is the matter. I
have finished with you, Mirelle. Do you
hear? Finished!"
Mirelle did not take it as he expected her
to do. She looked at him for a minute or two,
and then she smiled softly.
"But what a child! You are angry--yo11 are sore, and all because I am practical. Did
I not always tell you that I adored you?"
She leaned forward.
"But I know you, Dereek. Look at me? --see, it is Mirelle who speaks to you. Y011 cannot live without her, you know it. I lov^ . you before, I will love you a hundred tiin^ more now. I will make life wonderful ^or ,|
vou--but wonderful. There is no one like
Mirelle." Her eyes burned into his. She saw him
grow pale and draw in his breath, and she
smiled to herself *******edly. She knew her
own magic and power over men.
"That is settled," she said softly, and gave
a little laugh. "And now, Dereek, will you
give me lunch?"
"No."
He drew in his breath sharply and rose to
his feet.
"I am sorry, but I told you--I have got
an engagement."
"You are lunching with some one else?
Bah! I don't believe it."
"I am lunching with that lady over there."
He crossed abruptly to where a lady in
white had just come up the steps. He addressed
her a little breathlessly.
"Miss Grey, will you--will you have
lunch with me? You met me at Lady TamPlin's,
if you remember."
Katherine looked at him for a minute or ^o with those thoughtful grey eyes that said s0 much.
'Thank you," she said, after a moment's
Pause; "I should like to very much."
^^
Chapter 19
An Unexpected Visitor
the comte de LA roche had just finished dejeuner, consisting of an omelette fines herbes^ an entrecote Beamaise, and a Savarin au
Rhum. Wiping his fine black moustache delicately
with his table napkin, the Comte rose
from the table. He passed through the salon
of the villa, noting with appreciation the few objets d'art which were carelessly scattered
about. The Louis XV. snuff-box, the satin
shoe worn by Marie Antoinette, and the other
historic trifles were part of the Comte5 s wise
en scene. They were, he would explain to his
fair visitors, heirlooms in his family. Passing
through on to the terrace, the Comte looked
out on the Mediterranean with an unseeing
eye. He was in no mood for appreciating the
beauties of scenery. A fully matured scheme had been rudely brought to naught, and his
plans had to be cast afresh. Stretching hin^ self out in a basket chair, a cigarette hel0
between his white fingers, the Comte pondered
deeply.
presently Hippolyte, his manservant, brought out coffee and a choice of liqueurs.
The Comte selected some very fine old
brandy.
As the man-servant was preparing to depart, the Comte arrested him with a slight
gesture. Hippolyte stood respectfully to attention.
His countenance was hardly a prepossessing
one, but the correctitude of his
demeanour went far to obliterate the fact.
He was now the picture of respectful attention.

"It is possible," said the Comte, "that in
the course of the next few days various
strangers may come to the house. They will
endeavour to scrape acquaintance with you
and with Marie. They will probably ask you
various questions concerning me."
"Yes, Monsieur Ie Comte."
"Perhaps this has already happened?"
"No, Monsieur Ie Comte."
"There have been no strangers about the
Nace? You are certain?"
'There has been no one. Monsieur Ie
Cointe."
'That is well," said the Comte drily;
^f\^
"nevertheless they will come--I am sure of
it. They will ask questions."
Hippolyte looked at his master in intelligent
anticipation.
The Comte spoke slowly, without looking
at Hippolyte.
"As you know, I arrived here last Tuesday
morning. If the police or any other inquirer
should question you, do not forget
that fact. I arrived on Tuesday, the 14th--
not Wednesday, the 15th. You understand?"
"Perfectly, Monsieur Ie Comte."
"In an affair where a lady is concerned, it
is always necessary to be discreet. I feel certain, Hippolyte, that you can be discreet."
"I can be discreet. Monsieur."
"And Marie?"
"Marie also. I will answer for her."
"That is well then," murmured the
Comte.
When Hippolyte had withdrawn, the
Comte sipped his black coffee with a reflective
air. Occasionally he frowned, once he
shook his head slightly, twice he nodded it- Into the midst of these cogitations came Hip'
polyte once more.
"A lady. Monsieur."
"A lady?"
The Comte was surprised. Not that a visi1
^om a lady was an unusual thing at the Villa
Marina, but at this particular moment the
Cointe could not think who the lady was
likely to be.
"She is, I think, a lady not known to Monsieur," murmured the valet helpfully.
The Comte was more and more intrigued.
"Show her out here, Hippolyte," he commanded.

A moment later a marvellous vision in
orange and black stepped out on the terrace, accompanied by a strong perfume of exotic
blossoms.
"Monsieur Ie Comte de la Roche?"
"At your service. Mademoiselle," said the
Comte, bowing.
"My name is Mirelle. You may have heard
of me."
"Ah, indeed. Mademoiselle, but who has
not been enchanted by the dancing of Mademoiselle
Mirelle? Exquisite!"
The dancer acknowledged this compliant
with a brief mechanical smile.
'My descent upon you is unceremo^ous,"
she began.
'But seat yourself, I beg of you, Mademoiselle,"
cried the Comte, bringing for^d
a chair.
behind the gallantry of his manner he was
observing her narrowly. There were very fe^y
things that the Comte did not know about
women. True, his experience had not lain
much in ladies of Mirelle's class, who were
themselves predatory. He and the dancer
were, in a sense, birds of a feather. His arts
the Comte knew, would be thrown away on
Mirelle. She was a Parisienne, and a shrewd
one. Nevertheless, there was one thing that
the Comte could recognize infallibly when
he saw it. He knew at once that he was in
the presence of a very angry woman, and an
angry woman, as the Comte was well aware,
always says more than is prudent, and is
occasionally a source of profit to a levelheaded
gentleman who keeps cool.
"It is most amiable of you. Mademoiselle,
to honour my poor abode thus."
"We have mutual friends in Paris," said
Mirelle. "I have heard of you from them, but I come to see you to-day for another
reason. I have heard of you since I came to
Nice--in a different way, you understand.'
"Ah?" said the Comte softly.
"I will be brutal," continued the dancer;
"nevertheless, believe that I have your welfare
at heart. They are saying in Nice, Mon'
sieur Ie Comte, that you are the murderer 01
the English lady, Madame Kettering."
«ji--the murderer ofMadame Kettering?
pah! But how absurd!"
He spoke more languidly than indignantly? knowing that he would thus provoke
her further.
"But yes," she insisted; "it is as I tell
you."
"It amuses people to talk," murmured the
Comte indifferently. "It would be beneath
me to take such wild accusations seriously."
"You do not understand." Mirelle bent
forward, her dark eyes flashing. "It is not
the idle talk of those in the streets. It is the
police."
"The police--ah?"
The Comte sat up, alert once more.
Mirelle nodded her head vigorously several
times.
"Yes, yes. You comprehend me--I have
friends everywhere. The Prefect himself----"
She left the sentence unfinished, with an el°quent
shrug of the shoulders.
'Who is not indiscreet where a beautiful ^inan is concerned?" murmured the Count
Politely.
"The police believe that you killed Ma- ^nie Kettering. But they are wrong."
Certainly they are wrong," agreed the ^nite easily.
"You say that, but you do not know the
truth. I do."
The Comte looked at her curiously.
"You know who killed Madame Kettering?
Is that what you would say. Mademoiselle?"

Mirelle nodded vehemently.
"Yes."
"Who was it?" asked the Comte sharply.
"Her husband." She bent nearer to the
Comte 3 speaking in a low voice that vibrated
with anger and excitement. "It was her husband
who killed her."
The Comte leant back in his chair. His
face was a mask.
"Let me ask you. Mademoiselle--how do
you know this?"
"How do I know it?" Mirelle sprang to
her feet, with a laugh. "He boasted of it
beforehand. He was ruined, bankrupt, dishonoured.
Only the death of his wife could
save him. He told me so. He travelled on the
same train--but she was not to know it. Why
was that, I ask you? So that he might creep
upon her in the night----Ah!"--she shut
her eyes--"I can see it happening. . . "
The Count coughed.
"Perhaps--perhaps," he murmured. '^^
surely? Mademoiselle, in that case he would not steal the jewels?"
"The jewels!" breathed Mirelle. "The
jewels. Ah! Those rubies ..."
Her eyes grew misty, a far-away light in
them. The Comte looked at her curiously, wondering for the hundredth time at the
magical influence of precious stones on the
female sex. He recalled her to practical matters.

"What do you want me to do. Mademoiselle?"

Mirelle became alert and businesslike
once more.
"Surely it is simple. You will go to the
police. You will say to them that M. Kettering
committed this crime."
"And if they do not believe me? If they
ask for proof?" He was eyeing her closely.
Mirelle laughed softly, and drew her
°range-and-black wrap closer round her.
"Send them to me. Monsieur Ie Comte," ^e said softly; "I will give them the proof ^ey want."
Upon that she was gone, an impetuous ^irlwind, her errand accomplished.
The Comte looked after her, his eyebrows ^Ucately raised.
She is in a fury," he murmured. "What
has happened now to upset her? But she
shows her hand too plainly. Does she really believe that Mr. Kettering killed his wife^ She would like me to believe it. She would
even like the police to believe it."
He smiled to himself. He had no intention
whatsoever of going to the police. He saw
various other possibilities; to judge by his
smile, an agreeable vista of them.
Presently, however, his brow clouded. According
to Mirelle, he was suspected by the
police. That might be true or it might not.
An angry woman of the type of the dancer
was not likely to bother about the strict veracity
of her statements. On the other hand,
she might easily have obtained--inside information.
In that case--his mouth set
grimly--in that case he must take certain
precautions.
He went into the house and questioned
Hippolyte closely once more as to whether
any strangers had been to the house. The
valet was positive in his assurances that this
was not the case. The Comte went up to his
bedroom and crossed over to an old bureau
that stood against the wall. He let down the
lid of this, and his delicate fingers sought ^ a spring at the back of one of the pigeonholes.
A secret drawer flew out; in it was2
small brown paper package. The Comte took
this out and weighed it in his hand carefully
for a minute or two. Raising his hand to his
head, with a slight grimace he pulled out a
single hair. This he placed on the lip of the
drawer and shut it carefully. Still carrying
the small parcel in his hand, he went downstairs
and out of the house to the garage, where stood a scarlet two-seater car. Ten
minutes later he had taken the road for
Monte Carlo.
He spent a few hours at the Casino, then
sauntered out into the town. Presently he reentered
the car and drove off in the direction
ofMentone. Earlier in the afternoon he had
noticed an inconspicuous grey car some little
distance behind him. He noticed it again
now. He smiled to himself. The road was
climbing steadily upwards. The Comte's foot
pressed hard on the accelerator. The little
red car had been specially built to the
Comte's design, and had a far more powerful engine than would have been suspected from ^s appearance. It shot ahead.
Presently he looked back and smiled; the P^y car was following behind. Smothered in dust, the little red car leaped along the ^ad. It was travelling now at a dangerous pace, but the Comte was a first-class driver.
Now they were going down hill, twisting and
curving unceasingly. Presently the car slackened
speed, and finally came to a standstill
before a Bureau de Poste. The Comte
jumped out, lifted the lid of the tool chest
extracted the small brown paper parcel and
hurried into the post office. Two minutes
later he was driving once more in the direction
of Mentone. When the grey car arrived
there, the Comte was drinking English five
o'clock tea on the terrace of one of the hotels.
Later, he drove back to Monte Carlo,
dined there, and reached home once more
at eleven o'clock. Hippolyte came out to
meet him with a disturbed face.
"Ah! Monsieur Ie Comte has arrived.
Monsieur Ie Comte did not telephone me,
by any chance?"
The Comte shook his head.
"And yet at three o'clock I received a summons
from Monsieur Ie Comte, to present
myself to him at Nice, at the Negresco."
"Really," said the Comte; "and you
went?"
"Certainly, Monsieur, but at the Negresco
they knew nothing of Monsieur Ie Cornte-
He had not been there."
"Ah" said the Comte, "doubtless at that
hour Marie was out doing her afternoon mar-\??

keting?
'That is so. Monsieur Ie Comte." "Ah, well," said the Comte, "it is of no
importance. A mistake."
He went upstairs, smiling to himself.
Once within his own room, he bolted his
door and looked sharply round. Everything
seemed as usual. He opened various drawers
and cupboards. Then he nodded to himself.
Things had been replaced almost exactly as
he had left them, but not quite. It was evident
that a very thorough search had been
made.
He went over to the bureau and pressed
the hidden spring. The drawer flew open, but the hair was no longer where he had
placed it. He nodded his head several times.
"They are excellent, our French police,"
he murmured to himself--"excellent. Noth"ig
escapes them."
^ 11
Chapter 20
Katherine Makes a Friend
on the following morning Katherine and
Lenox were sitting on the terrace of the Villa
Marguerite. Something in the nature of a
friendship was springing up between them, despite the difference in age. But for Lenox,
Katherine would have found life at the Villa
Marguerite quite intolerable. The Kettering
case was the topic of the moment. Lady
Tamplin frankly exploited her guest's connection
with the affair for all it was worth.
The most persistent rebuffs that Katherine
could administer quite failed to pierce Lady
Tamplin's self-esteem. Lenox adopted a detached
attitude, seemingly amused at her
mother's manoeuvres, and yet with a sympathetic
understanding of Katherine's feelings.

The situation was not helped by
Chubby, whose naive delight was unquencn_ able, and who introduced Katherine to all
and sundry as:
"This is Miss Grey. You know that Blue Train business? She was in it up to the ears!
Had a long talk with Ruth Kettering a few
hours before the murder! Bit of luck for her,
eh?" A few remarks of this kind had provoked
Katherine that morning to an unusually tart
rejoinder, and when they were alone together
Lenox observed in her slow drawl:
"Not used to exploitation, are you? You
have a lot to learn, Katherine."
"I am sorry I lost my temper. I don't, as
a rule."
"It is about time you learnt to blow off
steam. Chubby is only an ass; there is no
harm in him. Mother, of course, is trying, but you can lose your temper with her until
Kingdom come, and it won't make any
impression. She will open large, sad blue
eyes at you and not care a bit."
Katherine made no reply to this filial observation, and Lenox presently went on:
"I am rather like Chubby. I delight in a 8°od murder, and besides--well, knowing ^erek makes a difference."
Catherine nodded.
''So you lunched with him yesterday,"
P^sued Lenox reflectively. "Do you like ^ Katherine?"
Katherine considered for a minute or two
"I don't know," she said very slowly.
"He is very attractive."
"Yes, he is attractive."
"What don't you like about him?"
Katherine did not reply to the question
or at any rate not directly. "He spoke of his
wife's death," she said. "He said he would
not pretend that it had been anything but a
bit of most marvellous luck for him."
"And that shocked you, I suppose," said
Lenox. She paused, and then added in rather
a queer tone of voice: "He likes you, Katherine."
"He gave me a very good lunch," said
Katherine, smiling.
Lenox refused to be sidetracked.
"I saw it the night he came here," she said
thoughtfully. "The way he looked at you;
and you are not his usual type--just the opposite.
Well, I suppose it is like religion--- you get it at a certain age."
"Mademoiselle is wanted at the tele
phone," said Marie, appearing at the window
of the salon. "M. Hercule Poirot desires
to speak with her."
"More blood and thunder. Go on, Katberine; go and dally with your detective."
M. Hercule Poirot's voice came neat and precise in its intonation to Katherine's ear.
"That is Mademoiselle Grey who speaks? pon. Mademoiselle, I have a word for you
from M. Van Aldin, the father of Madame
Kettering. He wishes very much to speak with you, either at the Villa Marguerite or
at his hotel, whichever you prefer."
Katherine reflected for a moment, but she
decided that for Van Aldin to come to the
Villa Marguerite would be both painful and
unnecessary. Lady Tamplin would have
hailed his advent with far too much delight.
She never lost a chance of cultivating millionaires.
She told Poirot that she would
much rather come to Nice.
"Excellent, Mademoiselle. I will call for
you myself in an auto. Shall we say in about
three-quarters of an hour?"
Punctually to the moment Poirot appeared.
Katherine was waiting for him, and Aey drove off at once.
"Well, Mademoiselle, how goes it?"
She looked at his twinkling eyes, and was ^nflrmed in her first impression that there ^s something very attractive about M. Her- ^le Poirot.
"This is our own Roman Policier, is it ^l' said Poirot. "I made you the promise
i h
that we should study it together. And me I
always keep my promises."
"You are too kind," murmured Katherine.

"Ah, you mock yourself at me; but do you
want to hear the developments of the case
or do you not?"
Katherine admitted that she did, and
Poirot proceeded to sketch for her a thumbnail
portrait of the Comte de la Roche.
"You think he killed her," said Katherine
thoughtfully.
"That is the theory," said Poirot guardedly.

"Do you yourself believe that?"
"I did not say so. And you, Mademoiselle,
what do you think?"
Katherine shook her head.
"How should I know? I don't know anything
about those things, but I should say
that----"
"Yes," said Poirot encouragingly.
"Well--from what you say the Count does
not sound the kind of man who would actually
kill anybody."
"Ahl Very good," cried Poirot, "you agree
with me, that is just what I have said." hs looked at her sharply. "But tell me, you have
met Mr. Derek Kettering?"
"I met him at Lady Tamplin's, and I
lunched with him yesterday."
"A mauvais sujet," said Poirot, shaking his
head; "but Us femmes—they like that, eh?"
He twinkled at Katherine and she
laughed.
"He is the kind of man one would notice
anywhere," continued Poirot. "Doubtless
you observed him on the Blue Train?"
"Yes, I noticed him."
"In the restaurant car?"
"No. I didn't notice him at meals at all.
I only saw him once—going into his wife's
compartment."
Poirot nodded. "A strange business," he
murmured. "I believe you said you were
awake. Mademoiselle, and looked out of
your window at Lyons? You saw no tall dark
man such as the Comte de la Roche leave the
train?"
Katherine shook her head. "I don't think
I saw any one at all," she said. "There was
a youngish lad in a cap and overcoat who got
^t? but I don't think he was leaving the
^ain, only walking up and down the plat^nn.
There was a fat Frenchman with a
^ard, in pyjamas and an overcoat, who
ranted a cup of coffee. Otherwise, I think
here were only the train attendants."
Poirot nodded his head several times. "It
is like this, you see," he confided, "the
Comte de la Roche has an alibi. An alibi, it
is a very pestilential thing, and always open
to the gravest suspicion. But here we are!"
They went straight up to Van Aldin5 s
suite, where they found Knighton. Poirot
introduced him to Katherine. After a few
commonplaces had been exchanged, Knighton
said, "I will tell Mr. Van Aldin that Miss
Grey is here."
He went through a second door into an
adjoining room. There was a low murmur
of voices, and then Van Aldin came into the
room and advanced towards Katherine with
outstretched hand, giving her at the same
time a shrewd and penetrating glance.
"I am pleased to meet you. Miss Grey,"
he said simply. "I have been wanting very
badly to hear what you can tell me about
Ruth."
The quiet simplicity of the millionaire's
manner appealed to Katherine strongly. She
felt herself in the presence of a very genuine
grief, the more real for its absence of outward
sign.
He drew forward a chair.
"Sit here, will you, and just tell me all
about it."
Poirot and Knighton retired discreetly
into the other room, and Katherine and Van
Aldin were left alone together. She found no
difficulty in her task. Quite simply and naturally
she related her conversation with Ruth
Kettering, word for word as nearly as she
could. He listened in silence, leaning back
in his chair, with one hand shading his eyes.
When she had finished he said quietly:
"Thank you, my dear."
They both sat silent for a minute or two.
Katherine felt that words of sympathy would
be out of place. When the millionaire spoke,
it was in a different tone:
"I am very grateful to you. Miss Grey. I
think you did something to ease my poor
Ruth's mind in the last hours of her life.
Now I want to ask you something. You
know--M. Poirot will have told you--about
the scoundrel that my poor girl had got herself
mixed up with. He was the man of whom
she spoke to you--the man she was going
to meet. In your judgment do you think she
might have changed her mind after her conversation
with you? Do you think she meant
to go back on her word?"
"I can't honestly tell you. She had certainly
come to some decision, and seemed more cheerful in consequence of it."
"She gave you no idea where she intended
to meet the skunk--whether in Paris or at
Hyeres?"
Katherine shook her head.
"She said nothing as to that."
"Ah!" said Van Aldin thoughtfully, "and
that is the important point. Well, time will
show."
He got up and opened the door of the
adjoining room. Poirot and Knighton came
back.
Katherine declined the millionaire's invitation
to lunch, and Knighton went down
with her and saw her into the waiting car.
He returned to find Poirot and Van Aldim
deep in conversation. |
"If we only knew," said the millionaire! thoughtfully, "what decision Ruth came to.
It might have been any of half a dozen. She
might have meant to leave the train at Paris
and cable to me. She may have meant to have
gone on to the south of France and have an
explanation with the Count there. We are in
the dark--absolutely in the dark. But we
have the maid's word for it that she was both
startled and dismayed at the Count's appearance
at the station in Paris. That was
clearly not part of the preconceived plan-^ You agree with me, Knighton?"
• The secretary started. "I beg your pardon,
^r. Van Aldin. I was not listening."
"Day-dreaming, eh?" said Van Aldin.
"That's not like you. I believe that girl has
bowled you over."
Knighton blushed.
"She is a remarkably nice girl," said Van
Aldin thoughtfully, "very nice. Did you
happen to notice her eyes?"
"Any man," said Knighton, "would be
bound to notice her eyes."
Chapter 21
At the Tennis
several days had elapsed. Katherine had
been for a walk by herself one morning, and
came back to find Lenox grinning at her
expectantly.
"Your young man has been ringing you
up, Katherine!"
"Who do you call my young man?"
"A new one--Rufus Van Aldin's secretary.
You seem to have made rather
an impression there. You are becoming a
serious breaker of hearts, Katherine. First
Derek Kettering, and now this young
Knighton. The funny thing is, that I remember
him quite well. He was in Mother's
War Hospital that she ran out here. I was
only a kid of about eight at the time."
"Was he badly wounded?"
"Shot in the leg, if I remember rightly-- rather a nasty business. I think the doctors
messed it up a bit. They said he wouldn't
Ump o1' anything, but when he left here he ^vas still completely dot and go one."
Lady Tamplin came out and joined them.
"Have you been telling Katherine about Major Knighton?" she asked. "Such a dear
fellow! Just at first I didn't remember him
--one had so many--but now it all comes
back."
"He was a bit too unimportant to be remembered
before," said Lenox. "Now that
he is a secretary to an American millionaire, it is a very different matter."
"Darling!" said Lady Tamplin in her
vague reproachful voice.
"What did Major Knighton ring up
about?" inquired Katherine.
"He asked if you would like to go to the
tennis this afternoon. If so, he would call for
you in a car. Mother and I accepted for you
with empressement. Whilst you dally with a niillionaire's secretary, you might give me a
chance with the millionaire, Katherine. He
is about sixty, I suppose, so that he will be looking about for a nice sweet young thing Like me."
"I should like to meet Mr. Van Aldin," ^id Lady Tamplin earnestly; "one has heard
^ much of him. Those fine rugged figures
. I
of the Western world"--she broke off--"go
fascinating," she murmured.
"Major Knighton was very particular to
say it was Mr. Van Aldin's invitation," said
Lenox. "He said it so often that I began to
smell a rat. You and Knighton would make
a very nice pair, Katherine. Bless you, my
children!"
Katherine laughed, and went upstairs to
change her clothes.
Knighton arrived soon after lunch and endured
manfully Lady Tamplin's transports
of recognition.
When they were driving together towards
Cannes he remarked to Katherine: "Lady
Tamplin has changed wonderfully little."
"In manner or appearance?"
"Both. She must be, I suppose, well over
forty, but she is a remarkably beautiful
woman still."
"She is," agreed Katherine.
"I am very glad that you could come today,"
went on Knighton. "M. Poirot is
going to be there also. What an extraordinary
little man he is. Do you know him well, Miss
Grey?"
Katherine shook her head. "I met him on
the train on the way here. I was reading a detective novel, and I happened to say some226
thing about such things not happening in
real li^- 0^ course, I had no idea of who he
was." "He is a very remarkable person," said
Knighton slowly, "and has done some very
remarkable things. He has a kind of genius
for going to the root of the matter, and right
up to the end no one has any idea of what
he is really thinking. I remember I was staying
at a house in Yorkshire, and Lady Clanravon's
jewels were stolen. It seemed at first
to be a simple robbery, but it completely
baffled the local police. I wanted them to call
in Hercule Poirot, and said he was the only
man who could help them, but they pinned
their faith to Scotland Yard."
"And what happened?" said Katherine
curiously.
"The jewels were never recovered," said
Knighton drily.
"You really do believe in him?"
"I do indeed. The Comte de la Roche is
a pretty wily customer. He has wriggled out
of most things. But I think he has met his match in Hercule Poirot."
"The Comte de la Roche," said Katherine
thoughtfully, "so you really think he did it?"
"Of course." Knighton looked at her in ^tonishment. "Don't you?"
977
"Oh yes," said Katherine hastily; "that
is, I mean, if it was not just an ordinary train
robbery."
"It might be, of course," agreed the other
"but it seems to me that the Comte de la
Roche fits into this business particularly
well."
"And yet he has an alibi."
"Oh, alibis!" Knighton laughed, his face
broke into his attractive boyish smile.
"You confess that you read detective stories, Miss Grey. You must know that any
one who has a perfect alibi is always open to
grave suspicion."
"Do you think that real life is like that?"
asked Katherine, smiling.
"Why not? Fiction is founded on fact."
"But is rather superior to it," suggested
Katherine.
"Perhaps. Anyway, if I was a criminal I
should not like to have Hercule Poirot on
my track."
"No more should I," said Katherine, and
laughed.
They were met on arrival by Poirot. As
the day was warm he was attired in a white duck suit, with a white camellia in his buttonhole.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle," said Poirot. "I
look very English, do I not?" "You look wonderful," said Katherine
tactfully.
"You mock yourself at me," said Poirot
genially, "but no matter. Papa Poirot, he
always laughs the last."
"Where is Mr. Van Aldin?" asked Knigh-
ton.
"He will meet us at our seats. To tell you
the truth, my friend, he is not too well
pleased with me. Oh, those Americans--the
repose, the calm, they know it not! Mr. Van
Aldin, he would that I fly myself in the pursuit
of criminals through all the byways of
Nice."
"I should have thought myself that it
would not have been a bad plan," observed
Knighton.
"You are wrong," said Poirot; "in these
matters one needs not energy but finesse. At Ae tennis one meets every one. That is so
important. Ah, there is Mr. Kettering."
Derek came abruptly up to them. He looked reckless and angry, as though something
had arisen to upset him. He and Kmghton greeted each other with some frigidity.
Poirot alone seemed unconscious of ^y sense of strain, and chatted pleasantly
in a laudable attempt to put every one at
their ease. He paid little compliments.
"It is amazing, M. Kettering, how well
you speak the French," he observed--"so
well that you could be taken for a Frenchman
if you chose. That is a very rare accomplishment
among Englishmen."
"I wish I did," said Katherine. "I am only
too well aware that my French is of a painfully
British order."
They reached their seats and sat down,
and almost immediately Knighton perceived
his employer signalling to him from the other
end of the court, and went off to speak to
him.
"Me, I approve of that young man," said
Poirot, sending a beaming smile after the
departing secretary, "and you. Mademoiselle?"

"I like him very much."
"And you, M. Kettering?"
Some quick rejoinder was springing to
Derek's lips, but he checked it as though
something in the little Belgian's twinkling
eyes had made him suddenly alert. He spoke
carefully, choosing his words.
"Knighton is a very good fellow," he said- Just for a moment Katherine fancied that
Poirot looked disappointed.
"He is a great admirer of yours, M.
poirot," she said, and she related some of
the things that Knighton had said. It amused
her to see the little man plume himself like
a bird, thrusting out his chest, and assuming
an air of mock modesty that would have deceived
no one.
"That reminds me. Mademoiselle," he
said suddenly, "I have a little matter of business
I have to speak to you about. When you were sitting talking to that poor lady in the
train, I think you must have dropped a cigarette
case."
Katherine looked rather astonished. "I
don't think so," she said. Poirot drew from
his pocket a cigarette case of soft blue
leather, with the initial "K" on it in gold.
"No, that is not mine," Katherine said.
"Ah, a thousand apologies. It was doubtless
Madame's own. 'K/ of course, stands
for Kettering. We were doubtful, because
she had another cigarette case in her bag, and it seemed odd that she should have two."
He turned to Derek suddenly. "You do not know, I suppose, whether this was your ^fe's case or not?"
Derek seemed momentarily taken aback. He stammered a little in his reply: "I--I ^n't know. I suppose so."
"It is not yours by any chance?"
"Certainly not. If it were mine it would
hardly have been in my wife's possession."
Poirot looked more ingenuous and childlike
than ever.
"I thought perhaps you might have
dropped it when you were in your wife's
compartment," he explained guilelessly.
"I never was there. I have already told the
police that a dozen times."
"A thousand pardons," said Poirot, with
his most apologetic air. "It was Mademoiselle
here who mentioned having seen you
going in."
He stopped with an air of embarrassment.
Katherine looked at Derek. His face had
gone rather white, but perhaps that was her
fancy. His laugh, when it came, was natural
enough.
"You made a mistake. Miss Grey," he said
easily. "From what the police have told me,
I gather that my own compartment was only
a door or two away from that of my wife'8 --though I never suspected the fact at the
time. You must have seen me going into my
own compartment." He got up quickly as he saw Van Aldin and Knighton approaching.

"I'm going to leave you now," he an'
nounced. "I can^t stand my father-in-law at
any Price. .
Van Aldin greeted Kathenne very courteously? but was clearly in a bad humour.
"You seem fond of watching tennis, M.
Poirot," he growled.
"It is a pleasure to me, yes," cried Poirot
placidly.
"It is as well you are in France," said Van
Aldin. "We are made of sterner stuff in the
States. Business comes before pleasure
there."
Poirot did not take offence; indeed, he
smiled gently and confidingly at the irate
millionaire.
"Do not enrage yourself, I beg of you.
Every one his own methods. Me, I have always
found it a delightful and pleasing idea
to combine business and pleasure together."
He glanced at the other two. They were
deep in conversation, absorbed in each
other. Poirot nodded his head in satisfaction,
^d then leant towards the millionaire, lowing
his voice as he did so.
"It is not only for pleasure that I am here, M- Van Aldin. Observe just opposite us that ^11 old man--the one with the yellow face ^d the venerable beard."
'^ell, what of him?"
"That," Poirot said, "is M. Papopolous 5}
"A Greek, eh?"
"As you say--a Greek. He is a dealer in
antiques ofworld-wide reputation. He has a
small shop in Paris, and he is suspected by
the police of being something more."
"What?"
"A receiver of stolen goods, especially
jewels. There is nothing as to the re-cutting
and re-setting of gems that he does not know.
He deals with the highest in Europe and with
the lowest of the riff-raff of the underworld."
Van Aldin was looking at Poirot with suddenly
awakened attention.
"Well?" he demanded, a new note in his
voice.
"I ask myself," said Poirot, "I, Hercule
Poirot"--he thumped himself dramatically
on the chest--"ask myself why is M. Papopolous
suddenly come to Nice?"
Van Aldin was impressed. For a moment
he had doubted Poirot and suspected the
little man of being past his job, a poseur only- Now, in a moment, he switched back to his
original opinion. He looked straight at the
little detective.
"I must apologize to you, M. Poirot.'
Poirot waved the apology aside with an
extravagant gesture.
"Bah!" he cried, "all that is of no importance.
Now listen, M. Van Aldin; I have
news for you."
The millionaire looked sharply at him, all
his interest aroused.
Poirot nodded.
"It is as I say. You will be interested. As
you know, M. Van Aldin, the Comte de la
Roche has been under surveillance ever
since his interview with the Juge dTnstruction.
The day after that, during his
absence, the Villa Marina was searched by
the police."
"Well," said Van Aldin, "did they find
anything? I bet they didn't."
Poirot made him a little bow.
"Your acumen is not at fault, M. Van Aldin.
They found nothing of an incriminating
nature. It was not to be expected that they
would. The Comte de la Roche, as your expressive
idiom has it, was not born on the
preceding day. He is an astute gentleman with great experience."
"Well, go on," growled Van Aldin.
"It may be, of course, that the Comte had ^thing of a compromising nature to con- ^al. But we must not neglect the possibility. lt? then, he has something to conceal, where
is ^P Not in his house--the police searched
ki I
thoroughly. Not on his person, for he knows
that he is liable to arrest at any minute. There
remains--his car. As I say, he was under
surveillance. He was followed on that day to
Monte Carlo. From there he went by road
to Mentone, driving himself. His car is a very
powerful one, it outdistanced his pursuers
and for about a quarter of an hour they completely
lost sight of him."
"And during that time you think he concealed
something by the roadside?" asked
Van Aldin, keenly interested.
"By the roadside, no. Qa n'est pas pratique.
But listen now--me, I have made a
little suggestion to M. Carrege. He is graciously
pleased to approve of it. In each Bureau
de Poste in the neighbourhood it has
been seen to that there is some one who
knows the Comte de la Roche by sight. Because, you see. Messieurs, the best way of
hiding a thing is by sending it away by the
post."
"Well?" demanded Van Aldin; his face
was keenly alight with interest and expectation.

"Well--z^a^ With a dramatic flourish
Poirot drew out from his pocket a loosely
wrapped brown paper package from which
the string had been removed.
"During that quarter of an hour's interval,
^ur good gentleman mailed this."
"The address?" asked the other sharply.
Poirot nodded his head.
"Might have told us something, but unfortunately
it does not. The package was addressed
to one of these little newspaper shops
in Paris where letters and parcels are kept
until called for on payment of a small commission."
"Yes, but what is inside?" demanded Van
Aldin impatiently.
Poirot unwrapped the brown paper and
disclosed a square cardboard box. He looked
round him.
"It is a good moment," he said quietly.
"All eyes are on the tennis. Look, Monsieur!"

He lifted the lid of the box for the fraction
of a second. An exclamation of utter astonishment
came from the millionaire. His face
turned as white as chalk.
"My God!" he breathed, "the rubies."
He sat for a minute as though dazed. Poirot restored the box to his pocket and Gained placidly. Then suddenly the mil- ^onaire seemed to come out of his trance;
ue leaned across to Poirot and wrung his
hand so heartily that the little man winced
with pain.
"This is great," said Van Aldin. "Great!
You are the goods, M. Poirot. Once and for
all, you are the goods."
"It is nothing," said Poirot modestly.
"Order, method, being prepared for eventualities
beforehand--that is all there is to
it."
"And now, I suppose, the Comte de la
Roche has been arrested?" continued Van
Aldin eagerly.
"No," said Poirot.
A look of utter astonishment came over
Van Aldin's face.
"But why? What more do you want?"
"The Comte's alibi is still unshaken."
"But that is nonsense."
"Yes," said Poirot; "I rather think it is
nonsense, but unfortunately we have to
prove it so."
"In the meantime he will slip through
your fingers."
Poirot shook his head very energetically-
"No," he said, "he will not do that. The
one thing the Comte cannot afford to sacrifice
is his social position. At all costs b^ must stop and brazen it out."
Van Aldin was still dissatisfied.
i»rr
"But I don't see——"
poirot raised a hand. "Grant me a little
moment, Monsieur. Me, I have a little idea.
Ma^y P60?^ have mocked themselves at the
little ideas ofHercule Poirot—and they have
been wrong."
"Well," said Van Aldin, "go ahead. What
is this little idea?"
Poirot paused for a moment and then he
said:
"I will call upon you at your hotel at eleven
o'clock to-morrow morning. Until then, say
nothing to any one."
Chapter 22
M. Papopolous Breakfasts
M. papopolous was at breakfast. Opposite
him sat his daughter, Zia.
There was a knock at the sitting-room
door 5 and a chasseur entered with a card
which he brought to Mr. Papopolous. The
latter scrutinized it, raised his eyebrows, and
passed it over to his daughter.
"Ah!" said M. Papopolous, scratching his
left ear thoughtfully, "Hercule Poirot. I
wonder now."
Father and daughter looked at each other.
"I saw him yesterday at the tennis," said
M. Papopolous. "Zia, I hardly like this."
"He was very useful to you once," h18 daughter reminded him.
"That is true," acknowledged M. Papopolous;
"also he has retired from active
work, so I hear."
These interchanges between father a11" daughter had passed in their own languaget^ow M. Papopolous turned to the chasseur
and said in French:
^Faites monter ce monsieur."
A few minutes later Hercule Poirot, exquisitely
attired, and swinging a cane with a
jaunty air, entered the room.
"My dear M. Papopolous."
"My dear M. Poirot."
"And Mademoiselle Zia." Poirot swept
her a low bow.
"You will excuse us going on with our
breakfast," said M. Papopolous, pouring
himself out another cup of coffee. "Your call
is--ahem!--a little early."
"It is scandalous," said Poirot, "but see
you, I am pressed."
"Ah!" murmured M. Papopolous, "you
are on an affair then?"
"A very serious affair," said Poirot: "the
death ofMadame Kettering."
"Let me see," M. Papopolous looked innocently
up at the ceiling, "that was the lady ^o died on the Blue Train, was it not? I
saw a mention of it in the papers, but there ^s no suggestion of foul play." ^ "In the interests of justice," said Poirot, 11 was thought best to suppress that fact."
There was a pause.
1 A 1
"And in what way can I assist you, A^ Poirot?" asked the dealer politely.
"Viola," said Poirot, "I shall come to the
point." He took from his pocket the same
box that he had displayed at Cannes, and
opening it, he took out the rubies and pushed
them across the table to Papopolous.
Although Poirot was watching him narrowly, not a muscle of the old man's face
moved. He took up the jewels and examined
them with a kind of detached interest, then
he looked across at the detective inquiringly:
"Superb, are they not?" asked Poirot.
"Quite excellent," said M. Papopolous.
"How much should you say they are
worth?"
The Greek's face quivered a little.
"Is it really necessary to tell you, M.
Poirot?" he asked.
"You are shrewd, M. Papopolous. No, it
is not. They are not, for instance, worth five
hundred thousand dollars."
Papopolous laughed, and Poirot joined
with him.
"As an imitation," said Papopolous, handing
them back to Poirot, "they are, as I said? quite excellent. Would it be indiscreet to
ask, M. Poirot, where you came across
them?"
"Not at all," said Poirot; "I have no ohiection
to telling an old friend like yourself.
They were in the possession of the Comte
delaRoche."
M. Papopolous" eyebrows lifted themselves
eloquently.
"In-deed," he murmured.
Poirot leant forward and assumed his most
innocent and beguiling air.
"M. Papopolous," he said, "I am going
to lay my cards upon the table. The original
of these jewels was stolen from Madame Kettering
on the Blue Train. Now I will say to
you first this: / am not concerned with the
recovery of these jewels. That is the affair of
the police. I am working not for the police
but for M. Van Aldin. I want to lay hands
on the man who killed Madame Kettering.
I am interested in the jewels only in so far as they may lead me to the man. You understand?"

The last two words were uttered with great ^gniflcance. M. Papopolous, his face quite unmoved, said quietly:
"Go on."
"It seems to me probable. Monsieur, that Uie jewels will change hands in Nice--may ^ydy have done so."
i!" said M. Papopolous.
He sipped his coffee reflectively, and
looked a shade more noble and patriarchal
than usual.
"I say to myself," continued Poirot, with
animation, "what good fortune! My old
friend, M. Papopolous, is in Nice. He will
aid me."
"And how do you think I can aid you?"
inquired M. Papopolous coldly.
"I said to myself, without doubt M. Papopolous
is in Nice on business."
"Not at all," said M. Papopolous, "I am
here for my health—by the doctor's orders."
He coughed hollowly.
"I am desolated to hear it," replied Poirot,
with somewhat insincere sympathy. "But to
continue. When a Russian Grand Duke, an
Austrian Archduchess, or an Italian Prince
wish to dispose of their family jewels—to
whom do they go? To M. Papopolous, is it
not? He who is famous all over the world for
the discretion with which he arranges these
things."
The other bowed.
"You flatter me."
"It is a great thing, discretion," mused
Poirot, and was rewarded by the fleeting
smile which passed across the Greek's face"I, too, can be discreet."
The eyes of the two men met.
Then Poirot went on speaking very slowly 3 and obviously picking his words with care.
"I say to myself, this: if these jewels have
changed hands in Nice, M. Papopolous
would have heard of it. He has knowledge
of all that passes in the jewel world."
"Ah!" said M. Papopolous, and helped
himself to a croissant.
"The police, you understand," said M.
Poirot, "do not enter into the matter. It is a
personal affair."
"One hears rumours," admitted M. Papopolous
cautiously.
"Such as?" prompted Poirot.
"Is there any reason why I should pass
them on?"
"Yes," said Poirot, "I think there is. You may remember, M. Papopolous, that seventeen
years ago there was a certain article m your hands, left there as security by a
very--er--Prominent Person. It was in your
keeping and it unaccountably disappeared. You were, if I may use the English express101^ in the soup."
His eyes came gently round to the girl. "^ had pushed her cup and plate aside, and ^th both elbows on the table and her chin
-» A C
resting on her hands was listening eagerly Still keeping an eye on her he went on:
"I am in Paris at the time. You send for
me. You place yourself in my hands. If \ restore to you that--article, you say I shall
earn your undying gratitude. Eh bien! I did
restore it to you."
A long sigh came from M. Papopolous.
"It was the most unpleasant moment of
my career," he murmured.
"Seventeen years is a long time," said
Poirot thoughtfully, "but I believe that I am
right in saying. Monsieur, that your race
does not forget."
"A Greek?" murmured Papopolous, with
an ironical smile.
"It was not as a Greek I meant," said
Poirot.
There was a silence, and then the old man
drew himself up proudly.
"You are right, M. Poirot," he said quietly.
"I am a Jew. And, as you say, our race
does not forget."
"You will aid me then?"
"As regards the jewels. Monsieur, I can
do nothing."
The old man, as Poirot had done just now? picked his words carefully.
"I know nothing. I have heard nothing246
if"
]^ut I can perhaps do you a good turn--that ^ if you are interested in racing."
"Under certain circumstances I might be," said Poirot, eyeing him steadily.
There is a horse running at Longchamps
that would, I think, repay attention. I cannot
say for certain, you understand; this news
passed through so many hands."
He stopped, fixing Poirot with his eye, as
though to make sure that the latter was comprehending
him.
"Perfectly, perfectly," said Poirot, nodding.

"The name of the horse," said M. Papopolous,
leaning back and joining the tips of
his fingers together, "is the Marquis. I
think, but I am not sure, that it is an English
horse, eh, Zia?"
"I think so too," said the girl.
Poirot got up briskly.
"I thank you. Monsieur," he said. "It is a great thing to have what the English call a tip from the stable. Au revoir. Monsieur,
^nd many thanks."
He turned to the girl.
"Au revoir, Mademoiselle Zia. It seems ^ me but yesterday that I saw you in Paris. ^ne would say that two years had passed at oiost."

JJ.
247

"There is a difference between sixteen and
thirty-three," said Zia ruefully.
"Not in your case," declared Poirot gallantly.
"You and your father will perhaps
dine with me one night."
"We shall be delighted," replied Zia.
"Then we will arrange it," declared
Poirot, "and now--je me sauve.'9
Poirot walked along the street humming
a little tune to himself. He twirled his stick
with a jaunty air, once or twice he smiled to
himself quietly. He turned into the first Bureau
de Poste he came to and sent off a telegram.
He took some time in wording it, but
it was in code and he had to call upon his
memory. It purported to deal with a missing
scarf-pin, and was addressed to Inspector
Japp, Scotland Yard.
Decoded, it was short and to the point. "Wire me everything known about man whose
soubriquet is the Marquis."
Chapter 23
A New Theory
it was exactly eleven o'clock when Poirot
presented himself at Van Aldin's hotel. He
found the millionaire alone.
"You are punctual, M. Poirot," he said,
with a smile, as he rose to greet the detective.
"I am always punctual," said Poirot. "The
exactitude—always do I observe it. Without
order and method——"
He broke off. "Ah, but it is possible that
1 have said these things to you before. Let
us come at once to the object of my visit."
"Your little idea?"
"Yes, my little idea." Poirot smiled.
"First of all. Monsieur. I should like to
^terview once more the maid, Ada Mason.
^e is here?"
"Yes, she's here."
"Ah!"
Van Aldin looked at him curiously. He
rang the bell, and a messenger was dispatched
to find Mason.
Poirot greeted her with his usual politeness, which was never without effect on that
particular class.
"Good afternoon. Mademoiselle," he said
cheerfully. "Be seated, will you not, if Monsieur
permits."
"Yes, yes, sit down, my girl," said Van
Aldin.
"Thank you, sir," said Mason primly,
and she sat down on the extreme edge of a
chair. She looked bonier and more acid
than ever.
"I have come to ask you yet more questions,"
said Poirot. "We must get to the bottom
of this affair. Always I return to the
question of the man in the train. You have
been shown the Comte de la Roche. You say
that it is possible he was the man, but you
are not sure."
"As I told you, sir, I never saw the gentleman's
face. That is what makes it so difficult."

Poirot beamed and nodded.
"Precisely, exactly. I comprehend well the
difficulty. Now, Mademoiselle, you have
been in the service ofMadame Kettering two
months;, you say. During that time, how
often did you see your master?"
Mason reflected a minute or two, and then
said:
"Only twice, sir."
"And was that near to, or far away?"
"Well once, sir, he came to Curzon Street.
I was upstairs, and I looked over the banisters
and saw him in the hall below. I was
a bit curious like, you understand, knowing
the way things--er--were." Mason finished
up with her discreet cough.
"And the other time?"
"I was in the Park, sir, with Annie--one
of the housemaids, sir, and she pointed out
the master to me walking with a foreign
lady."
Again Poirot nodded.
"Now listen. Mason, this man whom you
saw in the carriage talking to your mistress
at the Gare de Lyon, how do you know it
was not your master?"
"The master, sir? Oh, I don't think it ^uld have been."
"But you are not sure," Poirot persisted.
"Well--I never thought of it, sir."
Mason was clearly upset at the idea. "You have heard that your master was ^so on the train. What more natural than
that it should be he who came along the
corridor."
"But the gentleman who was talking to
the mistress must have come from outside
sir. He was dressed for the street. In an overcoat
and soft hat."
"Just so. Mademoiselle, but reflect a minute.
The train has just arrived at the Gare
de Lyon. Many of the passengers promenade
themselves upon the quay. Your mistress
was about to do so, and for that purpose had
doubtless put on her fur coat, eh?"
"Yes, sir," agreed Mason.
"Your master, then, does the same. The
train is heated, but outside in the station it
is cold. He puts on his overcoat and his hat
and he walks along beside the train, and
looking up at the lighted windows he suddenly
sees Madame Kettering. Until then he
has had no idea that she was on the train.
Naturally, he mounts the carriage and goes
to her compartment. She gives an exclamation
of surprise at seeing him and quickly
shuts the door between the two compartments
since it is possible that their conversation
may be of a private nature."
He leaned back in his chair and watched
the suggestion slowly take effect. No one knew better than Hercule Poirot that the
class to which Mason belongs cannot be hurried.
He must give her time to get rid of her
own preconceived ideas. At the end of three
minutes she spoke:
"Well, of course, sir, it might be so. I
never thought of it that way. The master is
tall and dark, and just about that build. It
was seeing the hat and coat that made me
say it was a gentleman from outside. Yes, it
might have been the master. I would not like
to say either way, I am sure."
'Thank you very much. Mademoiselle. I
shall not require you any further. Ah, just
one thing more." He took from his pocket
the cigarette case he had already shown to
Katherine. "Is that your mistress's case?"
he said to Mason.
"No, sir, it is not the mistress's--at
least----"
She looked suddenly startled. An idea was
clearly working its way to the forefront of
her mind.
"Yes," said Poirot encouragingly.
"I think, sir--I can't be sure, but I
think--it is a case that the mistress bought to give to the master."
"Ah," said Poirot in a noncommittal banner.
"But whether she ever did give it to him or not, I can't say, of course."
"Precisely," said Poirot, "precisely. That
is all, I think. Mademoiselle. I wish you good
afternoon."
Ada Mason retired discreetly, closing the
door noiselessly behind her. _
Poirot looked across at Van Aldin, a faint |
smile upon his face. The millionaire looked
thunderstruck.
"You think--you think it was Derek?"
he queried, "but--everything points the
other way. Why, the Count has actually been
caught redhanded with the jewels on him."
"No."
"But you told me----"
"What did I tell you?"
"That story about the jewels. You showed] them to me."
"No."
Van Aldin stared at him.
"You mean to say you didn't show them
to me."
"No."
"Yesterday--at the tennis?"
"No."
"Are you crazy, M. Poirot, or am I?'
"Neither of us is crazy," said the detective.
"You ask me a question; I answer itiay have I not shown you the jewels
day? I reply--no. What I showed you, an Aldin, was a first-class imitation, i to be distinguished except by an ex- from the real ones."
Chapter 24
Poirot Gives Advice
it took the millionaire some few minutes to
take the thing in. He stared at Poirot as
though dumbfounded. The little Belgian
nodded at him gently.
"Yes," he said, "it alters the position, does it not?"
"Imitation!"
He leaned forward.
"All along, M. Poirot, you have had this
idea? All along this is what you have been
driving at? You never believed that the
Comte de la Roche was the murderer?"
"I have had doubts," said Poirot quietly.
"I said as much to you. Robbery with violence
and murder"--he shook his head
energetically--"no, it is difficult to picture.
It does not harmonize with the personality
of the Comte de la Roche."
"But you believe that he meant to steal
the rubies?"
"Certainly. There is no doubt as to that.
See, I will recount to you the affair as I see
it. The Comte knew of the rubies and he laid
his plans accordingly. He made up a romantic
story of a book he was writing, so as to
induce your daughter to bring them with
her. He provided himself with an exact duplicate.
It is clear, is it not, that substitution
is what he was after. Madame, your daughter, was not an expert on jewels. It would
probably be a long time before she discovered
what had occurred. When she did so--
well--I do not think she would prosecute
the Comte. Too much would come out. He
would have in his possession various letters
others. Oh yes, a very safe scheme from the
Comte's point of view--one that he has
probably carried out before."
"It seems clear enough, yes," said Van
Aldin musingly.
"It accords with the personality of the
Comte de la Roche," said Poirot.
"Yes, but now----" Van Aldin looked ^archingly at the other. "What actually happened?
Tell me that, M. Poirot."
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
'It is quite simple," he said; "some one Pepped in ahead of the Comte."
There was a long pause.
I
Van Aldin seemed to be turning things
over in his mind. When he spoke it was without
beating about the bush.
"How long have you suspected my sonin-law,
M. Poirot?"
"From the very first. He had the motive
and the opportunity. Every one took for
granted that the man in Madame's compartment
in Paris was the Comte de la
Roche. I thought so, too. Then you happened
to mention that you had once mistaken
the Comte for your son-in-law. That
told me that they were of the same height
and build, and alike in colouring. It put some
curious ideas in my head. The maid had only
been with your daughter a short time. It was
unlikely that she would know Mr. Kettering
well by sight, since he had not been living
in Curzon Street; also the man was careful
to keep his face turned away."
"You believe he--murdered her," said
Van Aldin hoarsely.
Poirot raised a hand quickly.
"No, no, I did not say that--but it is a
possibility--a very strong possibility. He
was in a tight corner, a very tight corner, threatened with ruin. This was the one way
out."
"But why take the jewels?"
^
"To make the crime appear an ordinary
one committed by train robbers. Otherwise
suspicion might have fallen on him straight
away."
"If that is so, what has he done with the
rubies?"
"That remains to be seen. There are several
possibilities. There is a man in Nice who
may be able to help, the man I pointed out
at the tennis."
He rose to his feet and Van Aldin rose also
and laid his hand on the little man's shoulder.
His voice when he spoke was harsh with
emotion.
"Find Ruth's murderer for me," he said, "that is all I ask."
Poirot drew himself up.
"Leave it in the hands ofHercule Poirot,"
he said superbly, "have no fears. I will discover
the truth."
He brushed a speck of fluff from his hat, smiled reassuringly at the millionaire, and
left the room. Nevertheless, as he went down Ae stairs some of the confidence faded from
his face.
"It is all very well," he murmured to him- ^If? "but there are difficulties. Yes, there ^re great difficulties." As he was passing out
°f the hotel he came to a sudden halt. A car
^ I
had drawn up in front of the door. In it was
Katherine Grey, and Derek Kettering was
standing beside it talking to her earnestly.
A minute or two later the car drove off and
Derek remained standing on the pavement
looking after it. The expression on his face
was an odd one. He gave a sudden impatient
gesture of the shoulders, sighed deeply, and
turned to find Hercule Poirot standing at his
elbow. In spite of himself he started. The
two men looked at each other. Poirot steadily
and unwaveringly and Derek with a kind of
lighthearted defiance. There was a sneer behind
the easy mockery of his tone when he
spoke, raising his eyebrows slightly as he did
so.
"Rather a dear, isn't she?" he asked easily.
His manner was perfectly natural.
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "that describes
Mademoiselle Katherine very well.
It is very English, that phrase there, and
Mademoiselle Katherine, she also is very English."
Derek
remained perfectly still without answering.

"And yet she is sympathique, is it not so?
"Yes," said Derek; "there are not many
like her."
He spoke softly, almost as though to him'
self. Poirot nodded significantly. Then he
leant towards the other and spoke in a different
tone, a quiet, grave tone that was new
to Derek Kettering.
"You will pardon an old man. Monsieur, if he says to you something that you may
consider impertinent. There is one of your
English proverbs that I would quote to you.
It says that "it is well to be off with the old
love, before being on with the new.'"
Kettering turned on him angrily. "What the devil do you mean?" "You enrage yourself at me," said Poirot
placidly. "I expected as much. As to what I
mean--I mean. Monsieur, that there is a
second car with a lady in it. If you turn your
head you will see her."
Derek spun around. His face darkened
with anger.
"Mirelle, damn her!" he muttered. "I will
soon-----"
Poirot arrested the movement he was
about to make.
"Is it wise what you are about to do
there?" he asked warningly. His eyes shone ^ttly with a green light in them. But Derek ^s past noticing the warning signs. In his
^er he was completely off his guard.
MB
"I have broken with her utterly, and she
knows it," cried Derek angrily.
"You have broken with her, yes, but has she broken with you?"
Derek gave a sudden harsh laugh.
"She won't break with two million pounds
if she can help it," he murmured brutally;
"trust Mirelle for that."
Poirot raised his eyebrows.
"You have the outlook cynical," he murmured.

"Have I?" There was no mirth in his sudden
wide smile. "I have lived in the world long enough, M. Poirot, to know that all
women are pretty much alike." His face softened
suddenly. "All save one."
He met Poirofs gaze defiantly. A look of
alertness crept into his eyes, then faded
again. "That one," he said, and jerked his
head in the direction of Cap Martin.
"Ah!" said Poirot.
This quiescence was well calculated to
provoke the impetuous temperament of the
other.
"I know what you are going to say," said
Derek rapidly, "the kind of life I have led,
the fact that I am not worthy of her. You
will say that I have no right to think even 01
such a thing. You will say that it is not a
case of giving a dog a bad name--I know
that it is not decent to be speaking like this
with my wife dead only a few days, and murdered
at that."
He paused for breath, and Poirot took advantage
of the pause to remark in his plaintive
tone.
"But, indeed, I have not said anything at
all."
"But you will."
"Eh?" said Poirot.
"You will say that I have no earthly chance
of marrying Katherine."
"No," said Poirot, "I would not say that.
Your reputation is bad, yes, but with
women--never does that deter them. If you
were a man of excellent character, of strict
morality who had done nothing that he
should not do, and--possibly everything
that he should do--eh bien! then I should
have grave doubts of your success. Moral
worth, you understand, it is not romantic.
It is appreciated, however, by widows."
Derek Kettering stared at him, then he
swung round on his heel and went up to the
waiting car.
Poirot looked after him with some inter- es^ He saw the lovely vision lean out of the ^r and speak.
Derek Kettering did not stop. He lifted
his hat and passed straight on.
"Qa y est," said M. Hercule Poirot, "it is
time, I think, that I return chez moi."
He found the imperturbable George pressing
trousers.
"A pleasant day, Georges, somewhat fatiguing, but not without interest," he said.
George received these remarks in his usual
wooden fashion.
"Indeed, sir."
"The personality of a criminal, Georges,
is an interesting matter. Many murderers are
men of great personal charm."
"I always heard, sir, that Dr. Crippen was
a pleasant-spoken gentleman. And yet he cut
up his wife like so much mincemeat."
"Your instances are always apt, Georges."
The valet did not reply, and at that moment
the telephone rang. Poirot took up the
receiver.
(< 'Allo--'allo--yes, yes, it is Hercule
Poirot who speaks."
"This is Knighton. Will you hold the line
a minute, M. Poirot? Mr. Van Aldin would
like to speak to you."
There was a moment's pause, then the
millionaire's voice came through.
"Is that you, M. Poirot? I just wanted to
tell y011 ^^ ^ason came to me now of her
own accord. She has been thinking it over, and she says that she is almost certain that
the man at Paris was Derek Kettering. There ^yas something familiar about him at the
time, she says, but at the minute she could
not place it. She seems pretty certain now."
"Ah," said Poirot, "thank you, M. Van
Aldin. That advances us."
He replaced the receiver, and stood for a
minute or two with a very curious smile on
his face. George had to speak to him twice
before obtaining an answer.
"Eh?" said Poirot. "What is that that you
say to me?"
"Are you lunching here, sir, or are you
going out?"
"Neither," said Poirot, "I shall go to bed
and take a tisane. The expected has happened, and when the expected happens, it
always causes me emotion."
Chapter 25
Def/ance
As erek ettering passed the car, Mirelle
leant out.
"Dereek--I must speak to you for a
moment----"
But, lifting his hat, Derek passed straight
on without stopping.
When he got back to his hotel, the concierge
detached himself from his wooden pen
and accosted him.
"A gentleman is waiting to see you, Monsieur."

"Who is it?" asked Derek.
"He did not give me his name. Monsieur,
but he said his business with you was important, and that he would wait."
"Where is he?"
"In the little salon. Monsieur. He pr6'
ferred it to the lounge he said, as being m01^ private."
perek nodded, and turned his steps in
that direction.
The small salon was empty except for the
visitor, who rose and bowed with easy foreign
grace as Derek entered. As it chanced, Derek had only seen the Comte de la Roche
once, but found no difficulty in recognizing
that aristocratic nobleman, and he frowned
angrily. Of all the consummate impertinence!

"The Comte de la Roche, is it not?" he
said. "I am afraid you have wasted your time
in coming here."
"I hope not," said the Comte agreeably.
His white teeth glittered.
The Comte's charm of manner was usually
wasted on his own sex. All men, without
exception, disliked him heartily. Derek Kettering
was already conscious of a distinct
longing to kick the Count bodily out of the
room. It was only the realization that scandal
would be unfortunate just at present that ^strained him. He marveled anew that Ruth ^uld have cared, as she certainly had, for ^is fellow. A bounder, and worse than a bounder. He looked with distaste at the mount's exquisitely manicured hands.
'I called," said the Comte, "on a little
matter of business. It would be advisable I
think, for you to listen to me."
Again Derek felt strongly tempted to kick
him out, but again he refrained. The hint of
a threat was not lost upon him, but he interpreted
it in his own way. There were various
reasons why it would be better to hear
what the Comte had to say.
He sat down and drummed impatiently
with his fingers on the table.
"Well," he said sharply, "what is it?"
It was not the Comte's way to come out
into the open at once.
"Allow me. Monsieur, to offer you my
condolences on your recent bereavement."
"If I have any impertinence from you," said Derek quietly, "you go out by that window."

He nodded his head towards the window
beside the Comte, and the latter moved
uneasily.
"I will send my friends to you. Monsieur,
if that is what you desire," he said haughtily.
Derek laughed.
"A duel, eh? My dear Count, I don't take
you seriously enough for that. But I should
take a good deal of pleasure in kicking y011 down the Promenade des Anglais."
The Comte was not at all anxious to take
offence. He merely raised his eyebrows and
murmured:
"The English are barbarians."
"Well," said Derek, "what is it you have
to say to me?"
"I will be frank," said the Comte, "I will
come immediately to the point. That will suit
us both, will it not?"
Again he smiled in his agreeable fashion.
"Go on," said Derek curtly.
The Comte looked at the ceiling, joined
the tips of his fingers together, and murmured
softly:
"You have come into a lot of money, Monsieur."
"What the devil has that got to do with
you?"
The Comte drew himself up.
"Monsieur, my name is tarnished! I am
suspected--accused--of foul crime."
"The accusation does not come from me,"
said Derek coldly; "as an interested party I have not expressed any opinion."
"I am innocent," said the Comte, "I swear before heaven"--he raised his hand to
heaven--"that I am innocent."
"M. Carrege is, I believe, the Juge dTn- ^ruction in charge of the case," hinted
°erek politely.
L II
The Comte took no notice.
"Not only am I unjustly suspected of a
crime that I did not commit, but I am also
in serious need of money."
He coughed softly and suggestively.
Derek rose to his feet.
"I was waiting for that," he said softly;
"you blackmailing brute! I will not give you
a penny. My wife is dead, and no scandal
that you can make can touch her now. She
wrote you foolish letters, I dare say. If I were
to buy them from you for a round sum at
this minute, I am pretty certain that you
would manage to keep one or two back; and
I will tell you this, M. de la Roche, blackmailing
is an ugly word both in England and
in France. That is my answer to you. Good
afternoon."
"One moment"--the Comte stretched out
a hand as Derek was turning to leave the
room. "You are mistaken. Monsieur. You
are completely mistaken. I am, I hope, a 'gentleman.5" Derek laughed. "Any letters
that a lady might write to me I should hold
sacred." He flung back his head with a beautiful
air of nobility. "The proposition that I
was putting before you was of quite a different
nature. I am, as I said, extremely short
of money, and my conscience might imp^
ifine to go to the police with certain information."

Derek came slowly back into the room.
"What do you mean?"
The Comte's agreeable smile flashed forth
once more.
"Surely it is not necessary to go into details,"
he purred. "Seek whom the crime
jenefits, they say, don't they? As I said just
now, you have come into a lot of money
lately."
Derek laughed.
"If that is all----" he said contemptuously.

But the Comte was shaking his head.
"But it is not all, my dear sir. I should
not come to you unless I had much more
precise and detailed information than that.
It is not agreeable. Monsieur, to be arrested
and tried for murder."
Derek came close up to him. His face expressed
such furious anger that involuntarily Ae Comte drew back a pace or two.
"Are you threatening me?" the young man demanded angrily.
"You shall hear nothing more of the matter/5 the Comte assured him.
"Of all the colossal bluffs that I have ever
struck----"
I
The Comte raised a white hand.
"You are wrong. It is not a bluff. To convince
you I will tell you this. My information
was obtained from a certain lady. It is she
who holds the irrefutable proof that you
committed the murder."
"She? Who?"
"Mademoiselle Mirelle."
Derek drew back as though struck.
"Mirelle," he muttered.
The Comte was quick to press what he
took to be his advantage.
"A bagatelle of one hundred thousand
francs," he said. "I ask no more."
"Eh?" said Derek absently.
"I was saying. Monsieur, that a bagatelle
of one hundred thousand francs would satisfy
my--conscience."
Derek seemed to recollect himself. He
looked earnestly at the Comte.
"You would like my answer now?"
"If you please, Monsieur."
"Then here it is. You can go to the devil.
See?"
Leaving the Comte too astonished to
speak, Derek turned on his heel and swung
out of the room.
Once out of the hotel he hailed a taxi and
drove to Mirelle's hotel. On inquiring? ne
learned that the dancer had just come in.
perek gave the concierge his card.
"Take this up to Mademoiselle and ask if
she will see me."
A very brief interval elapsed, and then
perek was bidden to follow a chasseur.
A wave of exotic perfume assailed Derek's
nostrils as he stepped over the threshold of
the dancer's apartments. The room was filled
with carnations, orchids, and mimosa. Mirelle
was standing by the window in a peignoir of foamy lace.
She came towards him, her hands outstretched.

"Derek--you have come to me. I knew
you would."
He put aside the clinging arms and looked
down on her sternly.
"Why did you send the Comte de la Roche
to me?"
She looked at him in astonishment, which
he took to be genuine.
<<I? Send the Comte de la Roche to you?
But for what?"
"Apparently--for blackmail," said Derek
grimly.
Again she stared. Then suddenly she ^iled and nodded her head.
Of course. It was to be expected. It is
what he would do, ce type Id. I might have
known it. No, indeed, Dereek, I did not
send him."
He looked at her piercingly, as though
seeking to read her mind.
"I will tell you," said Mirelle. "I am
ashamed, but I will tell you. The other day
you comprehend, I was mad with rage, quite
mad--" she made an eloquent gesture. "My
temperament, it is not a patient one. I want
to be revenged on you, and so I go to the
Comte de la Roche, and I tell him to go to ^the police and say so and so, and so and so.
But have no fear, Dereek. Not completely
did I lose my head; the proof rests with me
alone. The police can do nothing without my
word, you understand? And now--now?"
She nestled up close to him, looking up
at him with melting eyes.
He thrust her roughly away from him. She
stood there, her breast heaving, her eyes narrowing
to a catlike slit.
"Be careful, Dereek, be very careful. You
have come back to me, have you not?"
"I shall never come back to you," said
Derek steadily.
"Ah!"
More than ever the dancer looked like a cat. Her eyelids flickered.
"So there is another woman? The one with whom you lunched that day. Eh! am I
right?"
"I intend to ask that lady to marry me.
You might as well know."
'That prim Englishwoman! Do you think
that I will support that for one moment? Ah, no." Her beautiful lithe body quivered.
"Listen, Dereek, do you remember that conversation
we had in London? You said the
only thing that could save you was the death
of your wife. You regretted that she was so
healthy. Then the idea of an accident came
t( your brain. And more than an accident."
"I suppose," said Derek contemptuously, " hat it was this conversation that you replated
to the Comte de la Roche."
i Mirelle laughed.
"Am I a fool? Could the police do anything
with a vague story like that? See--I will give
you a last chance. You shall give up this
Englishwoman. You shall return to me. And Aen, cheri, never, never will I breathe----"
"Breathe what?"
She laughed softly. "You thought no one
saw you----"
"What do you mean?"
"As I say, you thought no one saw you--
°Ht I saw you, Dereek, mon ami; I saw you
coming out of the compartment ofMadameyour
wife just before the train got into Lyons that
night. And I know more than that. I know
that when you came out of her compartment
she was dead."
He stared at her. Then, like a man in a
dream he turned very slowly and went out
of the room, swaying slightly as he walked.
Chapter 26
A Warning
"and so it is," said Poirot, "that we are the
good friends and have no secrets from each
other."
Katherine turned her head to look at him.
There was something in his voice, some undercurrent
of seriousness, which she had not
heard before.
They were sitting in the gardens of Monte
Carlo. Katherine had come over with her
friends, and they had run into Knighton and
Poirot almost immediately on arrival. Lady
Tamplin had seized upon Knighton and had
overwhelmed him with reminiscences, most
°f which Katherine had a faint suspicion were invented. They had moved away together, Lady Tamplin with her hand on the Young man's arm. Knighton had thrown a ^uple of glances back over his shoulder,
^d Poirot's eyes twinkled a little as he saw ^eni.
"I don't see----" began Katherine.
He interrupted her.
"You do not see why I am being so impertinent, Mademoiselle? I am an old man
and now and then--not very often--I come
across some one whose welfare is dear to me.
We are friends. Mademoiselle. You have said
so yourself. And it is just this--I should like
to see you happy."
Katherine stared very straight in front of
her. She had a cretonne sunshade with her,
and with its point she traced little designs in the gravel at her feet.
"I have asked you a question about Major
Knighton, now I will ask you another. Do
you like Mr. Derek Kettering?"
"I hardly know him," said Katherine.
"That is not an answer, that."
"I think it is."
He looked at her, struck by something in
her tone. Then he nodded his head gravely
and slowly.
"Perhaps you are right. Mademoiselle.
See you, I who speak to you have seen much
of the world, and I know that there are two
things which are true. A good man may be
ruined by his love for a bad woman--but
the other way holds good also. A bad man
may equally be ruined by his love for a good woman."
Katherine looked up sharply.
"When you say ruined----"
"I mean from his point of view. One must
be wholehearted in crime as in everything
else."
"You are trying to warn me," said Katherine
in a low voice. "Against whom?"
"I cannot look into your heart. Mademoiselle;
I do not think you would let me if
I could. I will just say this. There are men
who have a strange fascination for women."
"The Comte de la Roche," said Katherine, with a smile.
"There are others--more dangerous than
the Comte de la Roche. They have qualities
that appeal--recklessness, daring, audacity.
You are fascinated. Mademoiselle; I see that, but I think that it is no more than that. I
hope so. This man of whom I speak, the emotion he feels is genuine enough, but all
me same----"
"Yes?"
He got up and stood looking down at her. Then he spoke in a low , distinct voice:
"You could, perhaps, love a thief. Mademoiselle, but not a murderer."
He wheeled sharply away on that and left
her sitting there.
He heard the little gasp she gave and paid
no attention. He had said what he meant to
say. He left her there to digest that last unmistakable
phrase.
Derek Kettering, coming out of the Casino
into the sunshine, saw her sitting alone
on the bench and joined her.
"I have been gambling," he said, with a
light laugh, "gambling unsuccessfully. I
have lost everything--everything, that is,
that I have with me."
Katherine looked at him with a troubled
face. She was aware at once of something
new in his manner, some hidden excitement
that betrayed itself in a hundred different infinitesimal signs.
"I should think you were always a gambler.
The spirit of gambling appeals to you."
"Every day and in every way a gambler?
You are about right. Don't you find something
stimulating in it? To risk all on one
throw--there is nothing like it."
Calm and stolid as she believed herself to
be, Katherine felt a faint answering thrill.
"I want to talk to you," went on Derek,
"and who knows when I may have another opportunity? There is an idea going about
iat I murdered my wife--no, please don't
iterrupt. It is absurd, of course." He >aused for a minute or two, then went on,
speaking more deliberately. "In dealing with [Jie police and Local Authorities here I have had to pretend to--well--a certain decency.
[ prefer not to pretend with you. I meant to
marry money. I was on the look out for
money when I first met Ruth Van Aldin.
She had the look of a slim Madonna about
her, and I--well--I made all sorts of good
resolutions--and was bitterly disillusioned.
My wife was in love with another man when
she married me. She never cared for me in
the least. Oh, I am not complaining; the
thing was a perfectly respectable bargain.
She wanted Leconbury and I wanted money.
The trouble arose simply through Ruth's
American blood. Without caring a pin for me, she would have liked me to be continually
dancing attendance. Time and again
she as good as told me that she had bought
me and that I belonged to her. The result Was that I behaved abominably to her. My
father-in-law will tell you that, and he is
quite right. At the time of Ruth's death, I ^as faced with absolute disaster." He ^ughed suddenly. "One is faced with absolute disaster when one is up against a man
like Rufus Van Aldin."
"And then?" asked Katherine in a low
voice.
"And then," Derek shrugged his shoulders, "Ruth was murdered--very providentially."

He laughed, and the sound of his laugh
hurt Katherine. She winced.
"Yes," said Derek. "that wasn't in very
good taste. But it is quite true. Now I am
going to tell you something more. From the
very first moment I saw you I knew you were
the only woman in the world for me. I was
--afraid of you. I thought you might bring
me bad luck."
"Bad luck?" said Katherine sharply.
He stared at her. "Why do you repeat it
like that? What have you got in your mind?"
"I was thinking of things that people have
said to me."
Derek grinned suddenly. "They will say
a lot to you about me, my dear, and most of
it will be true. Yes, and worse things too--- things that I shall never tell you. I have been
a gambler always--and I have taken some long odds. I shan't confess to you now or at
any other time. The past is done with. There
is one thing I do wish you to believe. I swear
to you solemnly that I did not kill my wife."
He said the words earnestly enough, yet
there was somehow a theatrical touch about
them. He met her troubled gaze and went
on:
(<I know. I lied the other day. It was my
wife's compartment I went into."
"Ah," said Katherine.
"It's difficult to explain just why I went
in, but I'll try. I did it on an impulse. You
see, I was more or less spying on my wife.
I kept out of sight on the train. Mirelle had
told me that my wife was meeting the Comte
de la Roche in Paris. Well, as far as I had
seen, that was not so. I felt ashamed, and I
thought suddenly that it would be a good
thing to have it out with her once and for
all, so I pushed open the door and went in."
He paused.
"Yes," said Katherine gently.
"Ruth was lying on the bunk asleep--her
face was turned away from me--I could only
see the back of her head. I could have waked her up, of course. But suddenly I felt a re- sction. What, after all, was there to say that w^ hadn't both of us said a hundred times
°efore? She looked so peaceful lying there.
1 left the compartment as quietly as I could."
&
"Why lie about it to the police?" asked
Katherine.
"Because I'm not a complete fool. I've
realized from the beginning that, from the
point of view of motive, I'm the ideal murderer.
If I once admitted that I had been in
her compartment just before she was murdered,
I'd do for myself once and for all."
"I see."
Did she see? She could not have told herself.
She was feeling the magnetic attraction
of Derek's personality, but there was something
in her that resisted, that held back . . .
"Katherine----"
«T_____»?
"You know that I care for you. Do--do
you care for me?" »
"I--I don't know."
Weakness there. Either she knew or she
did not know.
If--if only--
She cast a look round desperately as
though seeking something that would help
her. A soft colour rose in her cheeks as a tall
fair man with a limp came hurrying along
the path towards them--Major Knighton.
There was relief and an unexpected
warmth in her voice as she greeted him.
Derek stood up scowling, his face black
as a thundercloud.
"Lady Tamplin having a flutter?" he said
easily. "I must join her and give her the
benefit of my system."
He swung round on his heel and left them
together. Katherine sat down again. Her
heart was beating rapidly and unevenly, but
as she sat there talking commonplaces to the
quiet, rather shy man beside her, her selfcommand
came back.
Then she realized with a shock that
Knighton also was laying bare his heart, much as Derek had done, but in a very different
manner.
He was shy and stammering. The words
came haltingly with no eloquence to back
them.
"From the first moment I saw you--I--
I ought not to have spoken so soon--but Mr.
Van Aldin may leave here any day, and I "light not have another chance. I know you ^n't care for me so soon--that is impossible.
I dare say it is presumption anyway on "^y part. I have private means, but not very "luch--no, please don't answer now. I know ^at your answer would be. But in case I ^ent away suddenly I just wanted you to
know--that I care."
She was shaken--touched. His manner
was so gentle and appealing.
"There's one thing more. I just wanted to
say that if--if you are ever in trouble, anything
that I can do--"
He took her hand in his, held it tightly
for a minute, then dropped it and walked
rapidly away towards the Casino without
looking back.
Katherine sat perfectly still, looking after
him. Derek Kettering--Richard Knighton
--two men so different--so very different. There was something kind about Knighton,
kind and trustworthy. As to Derek--
Then suddenly Katherine had a very curious
sensation. She felt that she was no
longer sitting alone on the seat in the Casino
gardens, but that some one was standing beside
her, and that that some one was the dead
woman, Ruth Kettering. She had a further
impression that Ruth wanted--badly--to
tell her something. The impression was so
curious, so vivid, that it could not be driven
away. She felt absolutely certain that the
spirit of Ruth Kettering was trying to convey
something of vital importance to her. The
impression faded. Katherine got up, trembling
a little. What was it that Ruth Kettering
had wanted so badly to say?
Chapter 27
Interview with Mirelle
when knighton left Katherine he went
in search of Hercule Poirot, whom he
found in the Rooms, jauntily placing the
minimum stake on the even numbers. As
Knighton joined him, the number thirtythree
turned up, and Poirofs stake was
swept away.
"Bad luck!" said Knighton; "are you
going to stake again?"
Poirot shook his head.
"Not at present."
"Do you feel the fascination of gambling?"
asked Knighton curiously.
"Not at roulette."
Knighton shot a swift glance at him. His
own face became troubled. He spoke halt- ^ly, with a touch of deference.
t(! wonder, are you busy, M. Poirot? There is something I would like to ask you
about."
I
attitude that I went down privately and had
an interview with the lady."
"Eh bien?"
"The difficulty was that she insisted on
seeing Mr. Van Aldin himself. I softened his
message as much as I possibly could. In
fact--to be candid--I gave it in a very different
form. I said that Mr. Van Aldin was
too busy to see her at present, but that she
might make any communication she wished
to me. That, however, she could not bring
herself to do, and she left without saying
anything further. But I have a strong impression, M. Poirot that that woman knows
something."
"This is serious," said Poirot quietly.
"You know where she is staying?"
"Yes." Knighton mentioned the name of
the hotel.
"Good," said Poirot; "we will go there
immediately."
The secretary looked doubtful.
"And Mr. Van Aldin?" he queried doubtfully.

"M. Van Aldin is an obstinate man," said
Poirot drily. "I do not argue with obstinate
men. I act in spite of them. We will go and
see the lady immediately. I will tell her that
you are empowered by M. Van Aldin to act
for him, and you will guard yourself well
from contradicting me."
Knighton still looked slightly doubtful, but Poirot took no notice of his hesitation.
At the hotel, they were told that Mademoiselle
was in, and Poirot sent up both his
and Knighton's cards, with "From Mr. Van
Aldin" pencilled upon them.
Word came down that Mademoiselle Mirelle
would receive them.
When they were ushered into the dancer's
apartments, Poirot immediately took the
lead.
"Mademoiselle," he murmured, bowing
very low, "we are here on behalf of M. Van
Aldin."
"Ah! And why did he not come himself?"
"He is indisposed," said Poirot mendaciously;
"the Riviera throat, it has him in its
grip, but me, I am empowered to act for
him, as is Major Knighton, his secretary.
Unless, of course. Mademoiselle would prefer
to wait a fortnight or so."
If there was one thing of which Poirot was
tolerably certain, it was that to a temperament
such as Mirelle's the mere word "wait"
was anathema.
"Eh bien, I will speak. Messieurs," she
cried. "I have been patient. I have held my
hand. And for what? That I should be insulted!
Yes, insulted! Ah! Does he think to
treat Mirelle like that? To throw her off like
an old glove. I tell you never has a man tired
of me. Always it is I who tire of them."
She paced up and down the room, her
slender body trembling with rage. A small
table impeded her free passage and she flung
it from her into a corner, where it splintered
against the wall.
"That is what I will do to him," she cried, "and that!"
Picking up a glass bowl filled with lilies
she flung it into the grate, where it smashed
into a hundred pieces.
Knighton was looking at her with cold
British disapproval. He felt embarrassed and
ill at ease. Poirot, on the other hand, with
twinkling eyes was thoroughly enjoying the
scene.
"Ah, it is magnificent!" he cried. "It can
be seen--Madame has a temperament."
"I am an artist," said Mirelle; "every artist
has a temperament. I told Dereek to beware,
and he would not listen." She whirled round
on Poirot suddenly. "It is true, is it not, that
he wants to marry that English miss?"
Poirot coughed.
"On m'a dit," he murmured, "that he
adores her passionately." I Mirelle came towards them.
"He murdered his wife," she screamed.
"There--now you have it! He told me beforehand
that he meant to do it. He had got
to an impasse--zut! he took the easiest way
out."
"You say that M. Kettering murdered his
wife."
"Yes, yes, yes. Have I not told you so?"
"The police," murmured Poirot, "will
need proof of that--er--statement."
"I tell you I saw him come out of her
compartment that night on the train."
"When?" asked Poirot sharply.
"Just before the train reached Lyons."
"You will swear to that. Mademoiselle?"
It was a different Poirot who spoke now, sharp and decisive.
"Yes."
j There was a moment's silence. Mirelle was
panting, and her eyes, half defiant, half
frightened, went from the face of one man
to the other.
"This is a serious matter, Mademoiselle,"
said the detective. "You realize how serious?"

"Certainly I do."
"That is well," said Poirot. "Then you
understand. Mademoiselle, that no time
must be lost. You will, perhaps accompany
us immediately to the office of the Examining
Magistrate."
Mirelle was taken aback. She hesitated, but, as Poirot had foreseen, she had no loophole
for escape.
"Very well," she muttered. "I will fetch
a coat."
Left alone together, Poirot and Knighton
exchanged glances.
"It is necessary to act while--how do you
say it?-- the iron is hot," murmured Poirot.
"She is temperamental; in an hour's time,
maybe, she will repent, and she will wish to
draw back. We must prevent that at all
costs."
Mirelle reappeared, wrapped in a sandcoloured
velvet wrap trimmed with leopard
skin. She looked not altogether unlike a leopardess, tawny and dangerous. Her eyes still
flashed with anger and determination.
They found M. Caux and the Examining
Magistrate together. A few brief introductory
words from Poirot, and Mademoiselle
Mirelle was courteously entreated to tell her
tale. This she did in much the same words
is she had done to Knighton and Poirot, hough with far more soberness of manner.
"This is an extraordinary story. Mademoiselle,"
said M. Carrege slowly. He leant
back in his chair, adjusted his pince-nez, and
looked keenly and searchingly at the dancer
through them.
"You wish us to believe M. Kettering actually
boasted of the crime to you beforehand?"

"Yes, yes. She was too healthy, he said.
If she were to die it must be an accident--
he would arrange it all."
"You are aware. Mademoiselle," said M.
Carrege sternly, "that you are making yourself
out to be an accessory before the fact?"
"Me? But not the least in the world, Monsieur. Not for a moment did I take that
statement seriously. Ah no, indeed! I know
men. Monsieur; they say many wild things.
I It would be an odd state of affairs if one were
to take all they said au pied de la lettre."
The Examining Magistrate raised his eyebrows.

"We are to take it, then, that you regarded
M. Kettering5 s threats as mere idle words?
May I ask. Mademoiselle, what made you
throw up your engagements in London and
come out to the Riviera?"
Mirelle looked at him with melting black
eyes.
"I wished to be with the man I loved," she said simply. "Was it so unnatural?"
Poirot interpolated a question gently.
"Was it, then, at M. Kettering's wish that
you accompanied him to Nice?"
Mirelle seemed to find a little difficulty in
answering this. She hesitated perceptibly before
she spoke. When she did, it was with a
haughty indifference of manner.
"In such matters I please myself. Monsieur,"
she said.
That the answer was not an answer at all
was noted by all three men. They said nothing.

"When were you first convinced that M.
Kettering had murdered his wife?"
"As I tell you. Monsieur, I saw M. Kettering
come out of his wife's compartment
just before the train drew into Lyons. There
was a look on his face--ah! at the moment
I could not understand it--a look haunted
and terrible. I shall never forget it."
Her voice rose shrilly, and she flung out
her arms in an extravagant gesture.
"Quite so," said M. Carrege.
"Afterwards, when I found that Madame
Kettering was dead when the train left
Lyons, then--then I knew!"
"And still--you did not go to the police, Mademoiselle," said the Commissary mildly.
Mirelle glanced at him superbly; she was
clearly enjoying herself in the role she was
playing.
"Shall I betray my lover?" she asked. "Ah
no; do not ask a woman to do that."
"Yet now----" hinted M. Caux.
"Now it is different. He has betrayed me!
Shall I suffer that in silence . . . ?"
The Examining Magistrate checked her.
"Quite so, quite so," he murmured soothingly.
"And now. Mademoiselle, perhaps
you will read over the statement of what you
have told us, see that it is correct, and sign
it."
Mirelle wasted no time on the document.
"Yes, yes," she said, "it is correct." She
rose to her feet. "You require me no longer, Messieurs?"
"At present, no. Mademoiselle."
"And Dereek will be arrested?"
"At once. Mademoiselle."
Mirelle laughed cruelly and drew her fur
draperies closer about her.
"He should have thought of this before he
insulted me," she cried.
"There is one little matter"--Poirot
coughed apologetically--"just a matter of
detail."
"Yes?"
"What makes you think Madame Kettering
was dead when the train left Lyons?"
Mirelle stared.
"But she was dead."
"Was she?"
"Yes, of course. I----"
She came to an abrupt stop. Poirot was
regarding her intently, and he saw the wary
look that came into her eyes.
"I have been told so. Everybody says so."
"Oh," said Poirot, "I was not aware that
the fact had been mentioned outside the Examining
Magistrate's office."
Mirelle appeared somewhat discomposed.
"One hears those things," she said
vaguely; "they get about. Somebody told
me. I can't remember who it was."
She moved to the door. M. Caux sprang
forward to open it for her, and as he did so,
Poirofs voice rose gently once more.
"And the jewels? Pardon, Mademoiselle.
Can you tell me anything about those?"
"The jewels? What jewels?"
"The rubies of Catherine the Great. Since
you hear so much, you must have heard of
them."
"I know nothing about any jewels," said
Mirelle sharply.
She went out, closing the door behind her.
M. Caux came back to his chair; the Examining
Magistrate sighed.
"What a fury!" he said, "but diablement
chic, I wonder if she is telling the truth? I
think so."
"There is some truth in her story, certainly,"
said Poirot. "We have confirmation
of it from Miss Grey. She was looking down
the corridor a short time before the train
reached Lyons and she saw M. Kettering go
into his wife's compartment."
"The case against him seems quite clear,"
said the Commissary, sighing; "it is a thousand
pities," he murmured.
"How do you mean?" asked Poirot.
"It has been the ambition of my life to lay
the Comte de la Roche by the heels. This
time, mafoiy I thought we had got him. This
other--it is not nearly so satisfactory."
M. Carrege rubbed his nose.
"If anything goes wrong," he observed
cautiously, "it will be most awkward. M.
Kettering is of the aristocracy. It will get
into the newspapers. If we have made a
mistake----" He shrugged his shoulders
forebodingly.
"The jewels now," said the Commissary,
"what do you think he has done with them?"
"He took them for a plant, of course,"
said M. Carrege; "they must have been a
great inconvenience to him and very awkward
to dispose of."
Poirot smiled.
"I have an idea of my own about the jewels.
Tell me. Messieurs, what do you know
of a man called the Marquis?"
The Commissary leant forward excitedly.
"The Marquis," he said, "the Marquis?
Do you think he is mixed up in this affair, M. Poirot?"
"I ask you what you know of him."
The Commissary made an expressive grimace.

"Not as much as we should like to," he
observed ruefully. "He works behind the
scenes, you understand. He has underlings
who do his dirty work for him. But he is
some one high up. That we are sure of. He
does not come from the criminal classes."
"A Frenchman?"
"Y--es. At least we believe so. But we
are not sure. He has worked in France, in
England, in America. There was a series of
robberies in Switzerland last autumn which
were laid at his door. By all accounts he is
a grand seigneur, speaking French and Ens
glish with equal perfection and his origin is
|p mystery."
Poirot nodded and rose to take his departure.

"Can you tell us nothing more, M.
Poirot," urged the Commissary.
"At present, no," said Poirot, "but I may
have news awaiting me at my hotel."
M. Carrege looked uncomfortable. "If the
Marquis is concerned in this----" he began, and then stopped.
"It upsets our ideas," complained M.
Caux.
"It does not upset mine," said Poirot. "On
the contrary, I think it agrees with them very
well. Au revoir. Messieurs; if news of any
importance comes to me I will communicate
it to you immediately."
He walked back to his hotel with a grave
face. In his absence a telegram had come to
him. Taking a paper-cutter from his pocket, he slit it open. It was a long telegram, and
he read it over twice before slowly putting
it in his pocket. Upstairs, George was awaiting
his master.
"I am fatigued, Georges, much fatigued.
Will you order for me a small pot of chocolate?"

The chocolate was duly ordered and
brought, and George set it at the little table
at his master's elbow. As he was preparing
to retire, Poirot spoke:
"I believe, Georges, that you have a good
knowledge of the English aristocracy?" murmured
Poirot.
George smiled apologetically.
"I think that I might say that I have, sir," he replied.
"I suppose that it is your opinion, Georges, that criminals are invariably drawn
from the lower orders."
"Not always, sir. There was great trouble
with one of the Duke of Devize5 s younger
sons. He left Eton under a cloud, and after
that he caused great anxiety on several occasions.
The police would not accept the
view that it was kleptomania. A very clever
young gentleman, sir, but vicious through
and through, if you take my meaning. His
Grace shipped him to Australia, and I hear
he was convicted out there under another
name. Very odd, sir, but there it is. The
young gentleman, I need hardly say, was not
in want financially."
Poirot nodded his head slowly.
an/i
7
"Love of excitement," he murmured, "and a little kink in the brain somewhere. I
wonder now----"
He drew out the telegram from his pocket
and read it again.
"Then there was Lady Mary Fox's daughter," continued the valet in a mood of reminiscence.
"Swindled tradespeople something
shocking, she did. Very worrying to the best
families, if I may say so, and there are many
other queer cases I could mention."
"You have a wide experience, Georges,"
murmured Poirot. "I often wonder having
lived so exclusively with titled families that
you demean yourself by coming as a valet to
me. I put it down to love of excitement on
your part."
"Not exactly, sir," said George. "I happened
to see in Society Snippets that you had
been received at Buckingham Palace. That
was just when I was looking for a new situation.
His Majesty, so it said, had been
I|nost gracious and friendly and thought very
highly of your abilities."
"Ah," said Poirot, "one always likes to
know the reason for things."
He remained in thought for a few moiinents
and then said:
^f\C-
"You rang up Mademoiselle Papopolous?"

"Yes, sir; she and her father will be
pleased to dine with you tonight."
"Ah," said Poirot thoughtfully. He drank
off his chocolate, set the cup and saucer
neatly in the middle of the tray, and spoke
gently, more to himself than to the valet.
"The squirrel, my good Georges, collects
nuts. He stores them up in the autumn so
that they may be of advantage to him later.
To make a success of humanity, Georges, we
must profit by the lessons of those below us
in the animal kingdom. I have always done
so. I have been the cat, watching at the
mouse hole. I have been the good dog following
up the scent, and not taking my nose
from the trail. And also, my good Georges, I
have been the squirrel. I have stored away the
little fact here, the little fact there. I go now
to my store and I take out one particular nut,
a nut that I stored away--let me see, seventeen
years ago. You follow me, Georges?"
"I should hardly have thought, sir," said
George, "that nuts would have kept so long
as that, though I know one can do wonders
with preserving bottles."
Poirot looked at him and smiled.
i(\fi
Chapter 28
Poirot Plays the Squirrel
^irot started to keep his dinner appointment
with a margin of three-quarters of an
hour to spare. He had an object in this. The
car took him, not straight to Monte Carlo, but to Lady Tamplin's house at Cap Martin,
where he asked for Miss Grey. The ladies
were dressing and Poirot was shown into a
small salon to wait, and here, after a lapse
of three or four minutes, Lenox Tamplin
came to him.
"Katherine is not quite ready yet," she
said. "Can I give her a message, or would
you rather wait until she comes down?"
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully. He was
a minute or two in replying, as though something
of great weight hung upon his decision.
Apparently the answer to such a simple question
mattered.
"No," he said at last, "no, I do not think it is necessary that I should wait to see Ma-
^f\n
demoiselle Katherine. I think, perhaps, Jiat
it is better that I should not. These things
are sometimes difficult."
Lenox waited politely, her eyebrows
slightly raised.
"I have a piece of news," continued
Poirot. "You will, perhaps, tell your friend.
M. Kettering was arrested to-night for the
murder of his wife."
"You want me to tell Katherine that?"
asked Lenox. She breathed rather hard, as
though she had been running; her face,
Poirot thought, looked white and strained—
rather noticeably so.
"If you please. Mademoiselle."
"Why?" said Lenox. "Do you think
Katherine will be upset? Do you think she
cares?"
"I don't know. Mademoiselle," said
Poirot. "See, I admit it frankly. As a rule I
know everything, but in this case, I—well,
I do not. You, perhaps, know better than I
do."
"Yes," said Lenox, "I know—but I am
not going to tell you all the same."
She paused for a minute or two, her dark
brows drawn together in a frown.
"You believe he did it?" she said abruptly.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
IFkO
"The police say so."
"Ah," said Lenox, "hedging, are you? So
lere is something to hedge about."
Again she was silent, frowning. Poirot said
gently:
"You have known Derek Kettering a long
time, have you not?"
"Off and on ever since I was a kid," said
Lenox gruffly.
Poirot nodded his head several times without
speaking.
With one of her brusque movements
Lenox drew forward a chair and sat down
on it, her elbows on the table and her face
supported by her hands. Sitting thus, she
looked directly across the table at Poirot.
"What have they got to go on?" she demanded.
"Motive, I suppose. Probably came
into money at her death."
"He came into two million."
"And if she had not died he would have
been ruined?"
"Yes."
"But there must have been more than
that," persisted Lenox. "He travelled by the
same train, I know, but--that would not be
enough to go on by itself."
"A cigarette case with the letter 'K' on it
which did not belong to Mrs. Kettering was
2HQ
found in her carriage, and he was seen by
two people entering and leaving the compartment
just before the train got into
Lyons."
"What two people?"
"Your friend Miss Grey was one of them.
The other was Mademoiselle Mirelle, the
dancer."
"And he, Derek, what has he got to say
about it?" demanded Lenox sharply.
"He denies having entered his wife's compartment
at all," said Poirot.
"Fool!" said Lenox crisply, frowning.
"Just before Lyons, you say? Does nobody
know when--when she died?"
"The doctors' evidence necessarily cannot
be very definite," said Poirot; "they are inclined
to think that death was unlikely to
have occurred after leaving Lyons. And we
know this much, that a few moments after
leaving Lyons Mrs. Kettering was dead."
"How do you know that?"
Poirot was smiling rather oddly to himself.
"Some one else went into her compartment
and found her dead."
"And they did not rouse the train?"
"No."
"Why was that?"
"Doubtless they had their reasons."
310
Lenox looked at him sharply.
"Do you know the reason?" , "I think so--yes."
Lenox sat still turning things over in her mind. Poirot watched her in silence. At last
he looked up. A soft colour had come into
er cheeks and her eyes were shining.
"You think some one on the train must
ave killed her, but that need not be so at
11. What is to stop any one swinging themelves
on to the train when it stopped at
Lyons? They could go straight to her compartment, strangle her, and take the rubies
and drop off the train again without any one
being the wiser. She may have been actually
killed while the train was in Lyons station.
Then she would have been alive when Derek
went in, and dead when the other person
found her."
Poirot leant back in his chair. He drew a
deep breath. He looked across at the girl and
nodded his head three times, then he heaved
i sigh.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "what you have said there is very just--very true. I was struggling in darkness, and you have shown
3ie a light. There was a point that puzzled
e and you have made it plain."
He got up.
311
run of good luck, and had soon won a few
thousand francs.
"It would be as well," she observed drily
to Poirot, "if I stopped now."
Poirofs eyes twinkled.
"Superb!" he exclaimed. "You are the
daughter of your father. Mademoiselle Zia.
To know when to stop. Ah! that is the art."
He looked round the rooms.
"I cannot see your father anywhere
about," he remarked carelessly. "I will fetch
your cloak for you. Mademoiselle, and we
will go out in the gardens."
He did not, however, go straight to the
cloak-room. His sharp eyes had seen but a
little while before the departure of M. Papopolous.
He was anxious to know what had
become of the wily Greek. He ran him to
earth unexpectedly in the big entrance hall.
He was standing by one of the pillars, talking
to a lady who had just arrived. The lady was
Mirelle.
Poirot sidled unostentatiously round the
room. He arrived at the other side of the pillar, and unnoticed by the two who were talking
together in an animated fashion--or rather, that is to say, the dancer was talking, Papopolous
contributing an occasional monosyllable and a good many expressive gestures.

"I tell you I must have time," the dancer
was saying, "If you give me time I will get
the money."
"To wait"--the Greek shrugged his
shoulders--"it is awkward."
"Only a very little while," pleaded the
other. "Ah! but you must! A week--ten
days--that is all I ask. You can be sure of
your affair. The money will be forthcoming."

Papopolous shifted a little and looked
round him uneasily--to find Poirot almost
at his elbow with a beaming innocent face.
"Ah! vous voild, M. Papopolous. I have
been looking for you. It is permitted that I
take Mademoiselle Zia for a little turn in the
gardens? Good evening. Mademoiselle." He
bowed very low to Mirelle. "A thousand pardons
that I did not see you immediately."
The dancer accepted his greetings rather
impatiently. She was clearly annoyed at the
interruption of her tete-d-tete. Poirot was
quick to take the hint. Papopolous had already
murmured: "Certainly--but certainly,"
and Poirot withdrew forthwith.
He fetched Zia's cloak, and together they
strolled out into the gardens.
"This is where the suicides take place,"
said Zia.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "So it is
said. Men are foolish, are they not. Mademoiselle?
To eat, to drink, to breathe the
good air, it is a very pleasant thing. Mademoiselle.
One is foolish to leave all that simply
because one has no money--or because
the heart aches. L'amour, it causes many fatalities, does it not?"
Zia laughed.
"You should not laugh at love. Mademoiselle,"
said Poirot, shaking an energetic
forefinger at her. "You who are young and
beautiful."
"Hardly that," said Zia; "you forget that
I am thirty-three, M. Poirot. I am frank with
you, because it is no good being otherwise.
As you told my father, it is exactly seventeen
years since you aided us in Paris that time."
"When I look at you, it seems much less,"
said Poirot gallantly. "You were then very
much as you are now. Mademoiselle, a little
thinner, a little paler, a little more serious.
Sixteen years old and fresh from your pension.
Not quite the petite pensionnaire, not
quite a woman. You were very delicious,
very charming. Mademoiselle Zia; others
thought so too, without doubt."
"At sixteen," said Zia, "one is simple and
a little fool."
"That may be," said Poirot, "yes, that
well may be. At sixteen one is credulous, is
one not? One believes what one is told."
If he saw the quick sideways glance that
the girl shot at him, he pretended not to have
done so. He continued dreamily: "It was a
curious affair that, altogether. Your father, Mademoiselle, has never understood the true
inwardness of it."
"No?"
"When he asked me for details, for explanations, I said to him thus: 'Without
scandal, I have got back for you that which
was lost. You must ask no questions.5 Do
you know. Mademoiselle, why I said these
things?"
"I have no idea," said the girl coldly. | "It was because I had a soft spot in my
heart for a little pensionnaire, so pale, so
thin, so serious."
i "I don't understand what you are talking
about," cried Zia angrily.
"Do you not. Mademoiselle? Have you
forgotten Antonio Pirezzio?"
He heard the quick intake of her breath
--almost a gasp.
"He came to work as an assistant in the
..M
shop, but not thus could he have got hold
of what he wanted. An assistant can lift his
eyes to his master's daughter, can he not? If
he is young and handsome with a glib
tongue. And since they cannot make love all
the time, they must occasionally talk of
things that interest them both--such as that
very interesting thing which was temporarily
in M. Papopolous5 possession. And since, as
you say. Mademoiselle, the young are foolish
and credulous, it was easy to believe him and
to give him a sight of that particular thing, to show him where it was kept. And afterwards
when it is gone--when the unbelievable
catastrophe has happened. Alas! the
poor little pensionnaire. What a terrible position
she is in. She is frightened, the poor
little one. To speak or not to speak? And
then there comes along that excellent fellow,
Hercule Poirot. Almost a miracle it must
have been, the way things arranged themselves.
The priceless heirlooms are restored
and there are no awkward questions."
Zia turned on him fiercely.
"You have known all the time? Who told
you? Was it--was it Antonio?"
Poirot shook his head.
"No one told me," he said quietly. "I
guessed. It was a good guess, was it not,
I Mademoiselle? You see, unless you are good
|at guessing, it is not much use being a dejtective."
The
girl walked along beside him for some
ninutes in silence. Then she said in a hard roice:
"Well, what are you going to do about it, re you going to tell my father?"
"No," said Poirot sharply. "Certainly
?»
She looked at him curiously.
"You want something from me?"
"I want your help. Mademoiselle."
"What makes you think that I can help
you?"
"I do not think so. I only hope so."
"And if I do not help you, then--you will
tell my father?"
"But no, but no! Debarrass yourself of
that idea. Mademoiselle. I am not a blackmailer.
I do not hold your secret over your
head and threaten you with it."
"If I refuse to help you----" began the
girl slowly.
"Then you refuse, and that is that."
"Then why----" she stopped.
"Listen, and I will tell you why. Women,
Mademoiselle, are generous. If they can render
a service to one who has rendered a ser-
vice to them, they will do it. I was generous
once to you. Mademoiselle. When I might
have spoken, I held my tongue."
There was another silence; then the girl
said, "My father gave you a hint the other
day."
"It was very kind of him."
"I do not think," said Zia slowly, "that
there is anything that I can add to that."
IfPoirot was disappointed he did not show
it. Not a muscle of his face changed.
"Eh bien!" he said cheerfully, "then we
must talk of other things."
And he proceeded to chat gaily. The girl
was distraite, however, and her answers were
mechanical and not always to the point. It
was when they were approaching the Casino
once more that she seemed to come to a decision.

"M. Poirot?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle?"
"I--I should like to help you if I could."
"You are very amiable. Mademoiselle--
very amiable."
Again there was a pause. Poirot did not
press her. He was quite ******* to wait and
let her take her own time.
"Ah bah," said Zia, "after all, why should
I not tell you? My father is cautious--very
rr
cautious in everything he says. But I know
that with you it is not necessary. You have
told us it is only the murderer you seek, and
that you are not concerned over the jewels.
I believe you. You were quite right when
you guessed that we were in Nice because
of the rubies. They have been handed over
here according to plan. My father has them
now. He gave you a hint the other day as to
who our mysterious client was."
"The Marquis?" murmured Poirot softly.
"Yes, the Marquis."
"Have you ever seen the Marquis, Mademoiselle
Zia?"
"Once," said the girl. "But not very
well," she added. "It was through a keyhole."

"That always presents difficulties," said
Poirot sympathetically, "but all the same you
saw him. You would know him again?"
Zia shook her head.
"He wore a mask," she explained.
"Young or old?"
"He had white hair. It may have been a
wig, it may not. It fitted very well. But I do
not think he was old. His walk was young,
I and so was his voice."
"His voice?" said Poirot thoughtfully.
i ^ ^ i
'-»^ i
"Ah, his voice! Would you know it again
Mademoiselle Zia?"
"I might," said the girl.
"You were interested in him, eh? It was
that that took you to the keyhole."
Zia nodded.
"Yes, yes. I was curious. One had heard
so much—he is not the ordinary thief—he
is more like a figure of history or romance."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "yes;
perhaps so."
"But it is not this that I meant to tell you,"
said Zia. "It was just one other little fact that
I thought might be—well—useful to you."
"Yes?" said Poirot encouragingly.
"The rubies, as I say, were handed over
to my father here at Nice. I did not see the
person who handed them over, but—
"Yes?"
"I know one thing. It was a woman.
^??
Chapter 29
A Letter from Home
"dear katherine,--Living among
grand friends as you are doing now, I
don't suppose you will care to hear any
of our news; but as I always thought
you were a sensible girl, perhaps you are
a trifle less swollen-headed than I suppose.
Everything goes on much the same
here. There was great trouble about the
new curate, who is scandalously high. In
my view, he is neither more nor less
than a Roman. Everybody has spoken to
the Vicar about it, but you know what
the Vicar is--all Christian charity and
no proper spirit. I have had a lot of
trouble with maids lately. That girl An- me was no good--skirts up to her knees
and wouldn't wear sensible woollen
stockings. Not one of them can bear
being spoken to. I have had a lot of pain
with my rheumatism one way and another, and Dr. Harris persuaded me to
go and see a London specialist--a waste
of three guineas and a railway fare, as I
told him; but by waiting until Wednesday
I managed to get a cheap return.
The London doctor pulled a long face
and talked all round about and never
straight out, until I said to him, 'I'm a
plain woman. Doctor, and I like things
to be plainly stated. Is it cancer, or is it
not?' And then, of course, he had to say
it was. They say a year with care, and
not too much pain, though I am sure I
can bear pain as well as any other Christian
woman. Life seems rather lonely at
times, with most of my friends dead or
gone before. I wish you were in St.
Mary Mead, my dear, and that is a fact.
If you hadn't come into this money and
gone off into grand society, I would
have offered you double the salary poor
Jane gave you to come and look after
me; but there--there's no good wanting
what we can't get. However, if things
should go ill with you--and that is always
possible. I have heard no end of
tales of bogus noblemen marrying girls
and getting hold of their money and
then leaving them at the church door. I
'»^» A
dare say you are too sensible for anything
of the kind to happen to you, but
one never knows; and never having had
much attention of any kind it might easily
go to your head now. So just in case, my dear, remember there is always a
home for you here; and though a plainspoken
woman I am a warm-hearted one
too.--Your affectionate old friend,
"amelia viner.
"P.S.--I saw a mention of you in the
paper with your cousin. Viscountess
Tamplin, and I cut it out and put it
with my cuttings. I prayed for you on
Sunday that you might be kept from
pride and vainglory."
Katherine read this characteristic epistle
through twice, then she laid it down and
stared out of her bedroom window across the
I blue waters of the Mediterranean. She felt a
[curious lump in her throat. A sudden wave
|0f longing for St. Mary Mead swept over her.
[So full of familiar, everyday, stupid little (things--and yet--home. She felt very inI
dined to lay her head down on her arms and
indulge in a real good cry.
Lenox, coming in at the moment, saved her.
"Hello, Katherine," said Lenox. "I say-^ what is the matter?" _
"Nothing," said Katherine, grabbing up |
Miss Viner's letter and thrusting it into her
handbag.
"You looked rather queer," said Lenox.
"I say--I hope you don't mind--I rang up
your detective friend, M. Poirot, and asked
him to lunch with us in Nice. I said you
wanted to see him, as I thought he might
not come for me."
"Did you want to see him then?" asked
Katherine.
"Yes," said Lenox. "I have rather lost my
heart to him. I never met a man before whose
eyes were really green like a cat's."
"All right," said Katherine. She spoke
listlessly. The last few days had been trying.
Derek Kettering's arrest had been the topic
of the hour, and the Blue Train Mystery had
been thrashed out from every conceivable
standpoint.
"I have ordered the car," said Lenox,
"and I have told Mother some lie or other
--unfortunately I can't remember exactly
what; but it won't matter, as she never remembers.
If she knew where we were going? she would want to come too, to pump M.
Poirot."
The two girls arrived at the Negresco to
[ind Poirot waiting.
He was full of Gallic politeness, and showered
so many compliments upon the two ^iris that they were soon helpless with laughLer;
yet for all that the meal was not a gay 3ne. Katherine was dreamy and distracted, md Lenox made bursts of conversation, interspersed
by silences. As they were sitting 3n the terrace sipping their coffee she sudienly
attacked Poirot bluntly.
"How are things going? You know what
[ mean?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "They take their course," he said.
"And you are just letting them take their course?"
He looked at Lenox a little sadly.
"You are young. Mademoiselle, but there are three things that cannot be hurried--Ie
bon Dieu, Nature, and old people."
"Nonsense!" said Lenox. "You are not aid."
"Ah, it is pretty what you say there."
"Here is Major Knighton," said Lenox.
Katherine looked round quickly and then toned back again.
"He is with Mr. Van Aldin," continued
Lenox. "There is something I want to ask
Major Knighton about. I won't be a minute."

Left alone together, Poirot bent forward
and murmured to Katherine:
"You are distraite. Mademoiselle; your
thoughts, they are far away, are they not?55
"Just as far as England, no farther."
Guided by a sudden impulse, she took the
letter she had received that morning and
handed it across to him to read.
"That is the first word that has come to
me from my old life; somehow or other--it
hurts."
He read it through and then handed it
back to her. "So you are going back to St.
Mary Mead?" he said slowly.
"No, I am not," said Katherine; "why
should I?"
"Ah," said Poirot, "it is my mistake. You , will excuse me one little minute." j
He strolled across to where Lenox Tamplin
was talking to Van Aldin and Knighton.
The American looked old and haggard. He
greeted Poirot with a curt nod but without
any other sign of animation.
As he turned to reply to some observation
made by Lenox, Poirot drew Knighton
aside.
"M. Van Aldin looks ill" he said.
"Do you wonder?" asked Knighton. "The
scandal ofDerek Kettering's arrest has about
put the lid on things, as far as he is concerned.
He is even regretting that he asked
you to find out the truth."
"He should go back to England," said
Poirot.
"We are going the day after tomorrow."
"That is good news," said Poirot.
He hesitated, and looked across the terrace
to where Katherine was sitting.
"I wish," he murmured, "that you could
tell Miss Grey that."
"Tell her what?"
I "That you--I mean that M. Van Aldin is
I returning to England."
Knighton looked a little puzzled, but he
readily crossed the terrace and joined Kathlerine.

Poirot saw him go with a satisfied nod of
the head, and then joined Lenox and the
American. After a minute or two they joined
the others. Conversation was general for a
few minutes, then the millionaire and his
secretary departed. Poirot also prepared to
take his departure.
( "A thousand thanks for your hospitality, JMesdemoiselles," he cried; "it has been a
I most charming luncheon. Ma foi, 1 needed
it!" He swelled out his chest and thumped
it. "I am now a lion--a giant. Ah, Mademoiselle
Katherine, you have not seen me as
I can be. You have seen the gentle, the calm
Hercule Poirot; but there is another Hercule
Poirot. I go now to bully, to threaten, to
strike terror into the hearts of those who
listen to me."
He looked at them in a self-satisfied way, and they both appeared to be duly impressed,
though Lenox was biting her under
lip, and the corners of Katherine's mouth
had a suspicious twitch.
"And I shall do it," he said gravely. "Oh
yes, I shall succeed."
He had gone but a few steps when Katherine's
voice made him turn.
"M. Poirot, I--I want to tell you. I think
you were right in what you said. I am going
back to England almost immediately."
Poirot stared at her very hard, and under
the directness of his scrutiny she blushed.
"I see," he said gravely.
"I don't believe you do," said Katherine.
"I know more than you think. Mademoiselle,"
he said quietly.
He left her, with an odd little smile upon
his lips. Entering a waiting car, he drove to
Antibes.
r
Hippolyte, the Comte de la Roche's
wooden-faced man-servant, was busy at the
Villa Marina polishing his master's beautiful
|cut table glass. The Comte de la Roche himself
had gone to Monte Carlo for the day.
Chancing to look out of the window, Hipolyte
espied a visitor walking briskly up to
ie hall door, a visitor of so uncommon a
/pe that Hippolyte, experienced as he was,
[had some difficulty in placing him. Calling
to his wife, Marie, who was busy in the
kitchen, he drew her attention to what he
called ce type la.
"It is not the police again?" said Marie
anxiously.
"Look for yourself," said Hippolyte.
Marie looked.
"Certainly not the police," she declared.
"I am glad."
"They have not really worried us much,"
said Hippolyte. "In fact, but for Monsieur
Ie Comte's warning, I should never have
guessed that stranger at the wine-shop to be
what he was."
The hall bell pealed and Hippolyte, in a
grave and decorous manner, went to open
the door.
, "M. Ie Comte, I regret to say, is not at ^ome."
^i
The little man with the large moustaches
beamed placidly.
"I know that," he replied. "You are Hippolyte
Flavelle, are you not?"
"Yes, Monsieur, that is my name."
"And you have a wife, Marie Flavelle?"
"Yes, Monsieur, but——"
"I desire to see you both," said the
stranger, and he stepped nimbly past Hippoly
te into the hall.
"Your wife is doubtless in the kitchen,"
he said. "I will go there."
Before Hippolyte could recover his
breath, the other had selected the right door
at the back of the hall and passed along the
passage and into the kitchen, where Marie
paused open-mouthed to stare at him.
"Voild," said the stranger, and sank into
a wooden arm-chair; "I am Hercule Poirot."
"Yes, Monsieur?"
"You do not know the name?"
"I have never heard it," said Hippolyte.
"Permit me to say that you have been
badly educated. It is the name of one of the
great ones of this world."
He sighed and folded his hands across his
chest.
Hippolyte and Marie were staring at him
uneasily. They were at a loss what to make
of this unexpected and extremely strange visitor.

"Monsieur desires----" murmured Hippolyte
mechanically.
"I desire to know why you have lied to
ie police."
"Monsieur!" cried Hippolyte; "I--lied to
ie police? Never have I done such a thing."
M. Poirot shook his head.
"You are wrong," he said; "you have done
on several occasions. Let me see." He took
small notebook from his pocket and consulted
it. "Ah, yes; on seven occasions at
least. I will recite them to you."
In a gentle unemotional voice he proI
ceeded to outline the seven occasions.
Hippolyte was taken aback.
"But it is not of these past lapses that I
wish to speak," continued Poirot, "only, my
dear friend, do not get into the habit of
thinking yourself too clever. I come now to
the particular lie in which I am concerned
--your statement that the Comte de la Roche
arrived at this villa on the morning of 14th
January."
"But that was no lie. Monsieur; that was
the truth. Monsieur Ie Comte arrived here
on the morning of Tuesday, the 14th. That
is so, Marie, is it not?"
Marie assented eagerly.
"Ah, yes, that is quite right. I remember
it perfectly."
"Ah," said Poirot, "and what did you give
your good master for dejeuner that day?"
"I----" Marie paused, trying to collect
herself.
"Odd," said Poirot, "how one remembers
some things--and forgets others."
He leant forward and struck the table a
blow with his fist; his eyes flashed with anger.

"Yes, yes, it is as I say. You tell your lies
and you think nobody knows. But there are
two people who know. Yes--two people.
One is Ie bon Dieu----"
He raised a hand to heaven, and then settling
himself back in his chair and shutting
his eyelids, he murmured comfortably:
"And the other is Hercule Poirot."
"I assure you. Monsieur, you are completely
mistaken. Monsieur Ie Comte left
Paris on Monday night----"
"True," said Poirot--"by the Rapide. I
do not know where he broke his journey.
Perhaps you do not know that. What I do
know is that he arrived here on Wednesday
morning, and not on Tuesday morning."
"Monsieur is mistaken," said Marie stolidly.

Poirot rose to his feet.
"Then the law must take its course," he
murmured. "A pity."
"What do you mean. Monsieur?" asked
Marie, with a shade of uneasiness.
"You will be arrested and held as accomplices
concerned in the murder of Mrs.
Kettering, the English lady who was killed."
"Murder!"
The man's face had gone chalk white, his
knees knocked together. Marie dropped the
rolling-pin and began to weep.
"But it is impossible--impossible. I
thought----"
"Since you stick to your story, there is
nothing to be said. I think you are both foolish."

He was turning towards the door when an
agitated voice arrested him.
"Monsieur, Monsieur, just a little moment.
I--I had no idea that it was anything
of this kind. I--I thought it was just a matter
concerning a lady. There have been little
awkwardnesses with the police over ladies
before. But murder--that is very different."
"I have no patience with you," cried
Poirot. He turned round on them and angrily
shook his fist in Hippolyte's face. "Am I to
stop here all day, arguing with a couple of
imbeciles thus? It is the truth I want. If you
will not give it to me, that is your look out. For the last time, when did Monsieur Ie Comte
arrive at the Villa Marina--Tuesday morning
or Wednesday morning?"
"Wednesday," gasped the man, and behind
him Marie nodded confirmation.
Poirot regarded them for a minute or two, then inclined his head gravely.
"You are wise, my children," he said quietly.
"Very nearly you were in serious trouble."

He left the Villa Marina, smiling to himself.

"One guess confirmed," he murmured to himself. "Shall I take a chance on the
other?"
It was six o'clock when the card of Monsieur
Hercule Poirot was brought up to Mirelle.
She stared at it for a moment or two, and then nodded. When Poirot entered, he
found her walking up and down the room
feverishly. She turned on him furiously.
"Well?" she cried. "Well? What is it now?
Have you not tortured me enough, all of
you? Have you not made me betray my poor
Dereek? What more do you want?"

"Just one little question. Mademoiselle.
After the train left Lyons, when you entered
Mrs. Kettering's compartment----"
"What is that?"
Poirot looked at her with an air of mild
reproach and began again.
"I say when you entered Mrs. Kettering's
compartment----f'
"I never did."
"And found her----"
"I never did."
"Ah, sacrer
He turned on her in a rage and shouted
at her, so that she cowered back before him.
"Will you lie to me? I tell you I know
what happened as well as though I had been
there. You went into her compartment and
you found her dead. I tell you I know it. To
lie to me is dangerous. Be careful. Mademoiselle
Mirelle."
Her eyes wavered beneath his gaze and
fell.
"I--I didn't----" she began uncertainly
I and stopped.
"There is only one thing about which I Iwonder," said Poirot--"I wonder. Mademoiselle, if you found what you were looking
I for or whether----"
"Whether what?"
"Or whether some one else had been be- i
fore you." j
"I will answer no more questions,"
screamed the dancer. She tore herself away
from Poirot's restraining hand, and flinging
herself down on the floor in a frenzy, she
screamed and sobbed. A frightened maid
came rushing in.
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders,
raised his eyebrows, and quietly left the
room.
But he seemed satisfied.
330
Chapter 30
Miss Viner Gives judgment
katherine looked out of Miss Viner's bedroom
window. It was raining, not violently, but with a quiet, well-bred persistence. The
window looked out on a strip of front garden
with a path down to the gate and neat little
flower-beds on either side, where later roses
and pinks and blue hyacinths would bloom.
Miss Viner was lying in a large Victorian
bedstead. A tray with the remains of breakfast
had been pushed to one side and she was
busy opening her correspondence and making
various caustic comments upon it.
Katherine had an open letter in her hand
and was reading it through for the second
time. It was dated from the Ritz Hotel, Paris.
"CHfeRE mademoiselle katherine (it
began),--"I trust that you are in good
health and that the return to the English
winter has not proved too depressing.
Me, I prosecute my inquiries with the
utmost diligence. Do not think that it is
the holiday that I take here. Very
shortly I shall be in England 5 and I hope
then to have the pleasure of meeting you
once more. It shall be so, shall it not?
On arrival in London I shall write to
you. You remember that we are the colleagues
in this affair? But indeed I think
you know that very well.
"Be assured. Mademoiselle, of my
most respectful and devoted sentiments.
"hercule poirot."
Katherine frowned slightly. It was as
though something in the letter puzzled and
intrigued her.
"A choir boys' picnic indeed," came from
Miss Viner. "Tommy Saunders and Albert
Dykes ought to be left behind, and I shan't
subscribe to it unless they are. What those
two boys think they are doing in church on
Sundays I don't know. Tommy sang, '0
God, make speed to save us,' and never
opened his lips again, and if Albert Dykes
wasn't sucking a mint humbug, my nose is
not what it is and always has been."
"I know, they are awful," agreed Katherine.

She opened her second letter, and a sudden
flush came to her cheeks. Miss Viner's
voice in the room seemed to recede into the
far distance.
When she came back to a sense of her
surroundings Miss Viner was bringing a long
speech to a triumphant termination.
"And I said to her, 'Not at all. As it happens, Miss Grey is Lady Tamplin's own
cousin." What do you think of that?"
"Were you fighting my battles for me?
That was very sweet of you."
"You can put it that way if you like. There
is nothing to me in a title. Vicar's wife or no
vicar's wife, that woman is a cat. Hinting
you had bought your way into Society."
"Perhaps she was not so very far wrong."
"And look at you," continued Miss Viner.
"Have you come back a stuck-up fine lady, as well you might have done? No, there you
are, as sensible as ever you were, with a pair
of good Balbriggan stockings on and sensible
shoes. I spoke to Ellen about it only yesterday.
'Ellen,5 I said, 'you look at Miss Grey.
She has been hobnobbing with some of the
greatest in the land, and does she go about
as you do with skirts up to her knees and
silk stockings that ladder when you look at
1/11
them, and the most ridiculous shoes that
ever I set eyes on?"
Katherine smiled a little to herself; it had
apparently been worth while to conform to
Miss Viner's prejudices. The old lady went
on with increasing gusto.
"It has been a great relief to me that you
have not had your head turned. Only the
other day I was looking for my cuttings. I
have several about Lady Tamplin and her
War Hospital and what not, but I cannot lay
my hand upon them. I wish you would look, my dear; your eyesight is better than mine.
They are all in a box in the bureau drawer."
Katherine glanced down at the letter in
her hand and was about to speak, but checked herself, and going over to the bureau
found the box of cuttings and began to
look over them. Since her return to St. Mary
Mead her heart had gone out to Miss Viner
in admiration of the old woman's stoicism
and pluck. She felt that there was little she
could do for her old friend, but she knew
from experience how much those seemingly
small trifles meant to old people.
"Here is one," she said presently. " 'Viscountess
Tamplin, who is running her villa
at Nice as an Officers' Hospital, has just been
the victim of a sensational robbery, her jew-
5A?
I
els having been stolen. Amongst them were
some very famous emeralds, heirlooms of the
Tamplin family.5"
"Probably paste," said Miss Viner; "a lot
of these Society women's jewels are."
"Here is another," said Katherine. "A
picture of her, 'A charming camera study of
Viscountess Tamplin with her little daughter
Lenox.'"
"Let me look," said Miss Viner. "You
can't see much of the child's face, can you?
But I dare say that is just as well. Things go
by contraries in this world and beautiful
mothers have hideous children. I dare say
the photographer realized that to take the
back of the child's head was the best thing
he could do for her."
Katherine laughed.
"'One of the smartest hostesses on the
Riviera this season is Viscountess Tamplin, who has a villa at Cap Martin. Her cousin, Miss Grey, who recently inherited a vast fortune
in a most romantic manner, is staying
with her there.'"
"That is the one I wanted," said Miss Viner.
"I expect there has been a picture of
you in one of the papers that I have missed, you know the kind of thing. Mrs. Somebody
or other Jones-Williams, at the something or
"» A »
other Point-to-point, usually carrying a
shooting-stick and having one foot lifted up
in the air. It must be a trial to some of them
to see what they look like."
Katherine did not answer. She was
smoothing out the cutting with her finger,
and her face had a puzzled, worried look.
Then she drew the second letter out of its
envelope and mastered its *******s once
more. She turned to her friend.
"Miss Viner? I wonder—there is a friend
of mine, some one I met on the Riviera, who
wants very much to come down and see me
here?"
"A man," said Miss Viner.
"Yes."
"Who is he?"
"He is secretary to Mr. Van Aldin, the
American millionaire.? ?
"What is his name?"
"Knighton. Major Knighton."
"Hm—secretary to a millionaire. And
wants to come down here. Now, Katherine,
I am going to say something to you for your
own good. You are a nice girl and a sensible
girl, and though you have your head screwed
on the right way about most things, every
woman makes a fool of herself once in her
-» A A
IT!
life. Ten to one what this man is after is your
money."
With a gesture she arrested Katherine's
reply. "I have been waiting for something
of this kind. What is a secretary to a millionaire?
Nine times out of ten it is a young
man who likes living soft. A young man with
nice manners and a taste for luxury and no
brains and no enterprise, and if there is anything
that is a softer job than being a secretary
to a millionaire it is marrying a rich
woman for her money. I am not saying that
you might not be some man's fancy. But you
are not young, and though you have a very
good complexion you are not a beauty, and
what I say to you is, don't make a fool of
yourself; but if you are determined to do so, do see that your money is properly tied up
pn yourself. There, now I have finished.
p^hat have you got to say?"
1 "Nothing," said Katherine; "but would
you mind if he did come down to see me?"
"I wash my hands of it," said Miss Viner.
"I have done my duty, and whatever happens
now is on your own head. Would you
like him to lunch or to dinner? I dare say
lien could manage dinner--that is, if she
idn't lose her head."
"Lunch would be very nice," said Kath-
erine. "It is awfully kind of you. Miss Viner.
He asked me to ring him up, so I will do so
and say that we shall be pleased if he will
lunch with us. He will motor down from
town."
"Ellen does a steak with grilled tomatoes
pretty fairly," said Miss Viner. "She doesn't
do it well, but she does it better than anything
else. It is no good having a tart because
she is heavy handed with pastry; but her
little castle puddings are not bad, and I dare
say you could find a nice piece of Stilton at
Abbot's. I have always heard that gentlemen
like a nice piece of Stilton, and there is a
good deal of father's wine left, a bottle of
sparkling Moselle, perhaps."
"Oh no, Miss Viner; that is really not necessary."

"Nonsense, my child. No gentleman is
happy unless he drinks something with his
meal. There is some good pre-war whisky if
you think he would prefer that. Now do as
I say and don't argue. The key of the winecellar
is in the third drawer down in the
dressing-table, in the second pair of stockings
on the left-hand side."
Katherine went obediently to the spot indicated.

"The second pair, now mind," said Miss
3/1^:
rr
Viner. "The first pair has my diamond earrings
and my filigree brooch in it."
"Oh," said Katherine, rather taken aback,
"wouldn't you like them put in your jewelcase?"
Miss
Viner gave vent to a terrific and prolonged
snort.
"No, indeed! I have much too much sense
for that sort of thing, thank you. Dear, dear,
ib I well remember how my poor father had a
J safe built in downstairs. Pleased as Punch
he was with it, and he said to my mother, 'Now, Mary, you bring me your jewels in
their case every night and I will lock them
away for you.5 My mother was a very tactful
woman, and she knew that gentlemen like
having their own way, and she brought him
the jewel-case locked up just as he said.
"And one night burglars broke in, and of
course--naturally--the first thing they went
for was the safe! It would be, with my father
talking up and down the village and bragging
about it until you might have thought he
kept all King Solomon's diamonds there.
They made a clean sweep, got the tankards,
^the silver cups, and the presentation gold
late that my father had had presented to m, and the jewel-case."
She sighed reminiscently. "My father was
in a great state over my mother's jewels.
There was the Venetian set and some very
fine cameos, and some pale pink corals 5 and
two diamond rings with quite large stones
in them. And then, of course, she had to tell
him that, being a sensible woman, she had
kept her jewellery rolled up in a pair of corsets, and there it was still as safe as anything."

"And the jewel-case had been quite
empty?"
"Oh no, dear," said Miss Viner, "it would
have been too light a weight then. My
mother was a very intelligent woman, she
saw to that. She kept her buttons in the
jewel-case, and a very handy place it was.
Boot buttons in the top tray, trouser buttons
in the second tray, and assorted buttons below.
Curiously enough, my father was quite
annoyed with her. He said he didn't like
deceit. But I mustn't go chattering on; you
want to go and ring up your friend, and mind
you choose a nice piece of steak, and tell
Ellen she is not to have holes in her stockings
when she waits at lunch."
"Is her name Ellen or Helen, Miss Viner?
I thought----"
Miss Viner closed her eyes.
"I can sound my h's, dear, as well as any
one, but Helen is not a suitable name for a
servant. I don't know what the mothers in
the lower classes are coming to nowadays."
The rain had cleared away when Knighton
arrived at the cottage. The pale fitful sunshine
shone down on it and burnished Katherine's
head as she stood in the doorway to
welcome him. He came up to her quickly, almost boyishly.
<(I say, I hope you don't mind. I simply
had to see you again soon. I hope the friend
you are staying with does not mind."
"Come in and make friends with her,"
said Katherine. "She can be most alarming, but you will soon find that she has the softest
heart in the world."
Miss Viner was enthroned majestically in
the drawing-room, wearing a complete set
of the cameos which had been so providentially
preserved in the family. She greeted
Knighton with dignity and an austere politeness
which would have damped many
men. Knighton, however, had a charm of
manner which was not easily set aside, and
after about ten minutes Miss Viner thawed t perceptibly. Luncheon was a merry meal, and Ellen, or Helen, in a new pair of silk
stockings devoid of ladders performed prodigies
of waiting. Afterwards, Katherine and
Knighton went for a walk and they came
back to have tea tete-d-tete, since Miss Viner
had gone to lie down.
When the car had finally driven off Katherine
went slowly upstairs. A voice called her
and she went in to Miss Viner's bedroom.
"Friend gone?"
"Yes. Thank you so much for letting me
ask him down."
"No need to thank me. Do you think I
am the sort of old curmudgeon who will
never do anything for anybody?"
"I think you are a dear," said Katherine
affectionately.
"Humph," said Miss Viner mollified.
As Katherine was leaving the room she
called her back
"Katherine?"
"Yes."
"I was wrong about that young man of
yours. A man when he is making up to anybody
can be cordial and gallant and full of
little attentions and altogether charming.
But when a man is really in love he can't
help looking like a sheep. Now, whenever
that young man looked at you he looked like
a sheep. I take back all I said this morning.
It is genuine."
Chapter 31
Mr. Aarons Lunches
"ah!" said Mr. Joseph Aarons appreciatively.

He took a long draught from his tankard, set it down with a sigh, wiped the froth from
his lips, and beamed across the table at his
host. Monsieur Hercule Poirot.
"Give me," said Mr. Aarons, "a good Porterhouse
steak and a tankard of something
worth drinking, and any one can have your
French fallals and whatnots, your ordoovres
and your omelettes and your little bits of
quail. Give me," he reiterated, "a Porterhouse
steak."
Poirot, who had just complied with this
request, smiled sympathetically.
"Not that there is much wrong with a
steak and kidney pudding," continued Mr.
Aarons. "Apple tart? Yes, I will take apple
tart, thank you. Miss, and a jug of cream."
The meal proceeded. Finally, with a long
sigh, Mr. Aarons laid down his spoon and
fork preparatory to toying with some cheese
before turning his mind to other matters.
"There was a little matter of business I
think you said. Monsieur Poirot," he remarked.
"Anything I can do to help you I
am sure I shall be most happy."
"That is very kind of you," said Poirot.
"I said to myself, 'If you want to know anything
about the dramatic profession there is
one person who knows all that is to be known
and that is my old friend, Mr. Joseph
Aarons.5"
"And you don't say far wrong," said Mr.
Aarons complacently, "whether it is past,
present, or future, Joe Aarons is the man to
come to."
"Precisement. Now I want to ask you, Monsieur Aarons, what you know about a
young woman called Kidd."
"Kidd? Kitty Kidd?"
"Kitty Kidd."
"Pretty smart, she was. Male impersonator,
song and a dance---- That one?"
"That is the one."
"Very smart, she was. Made a good income.
Never out of an engagement. Male
impersonation mostly, but, as a matter of
3C^
fact, you could not touch her as a character
actress."
"So I have heard," said Poirot; "but she
has not been appearing lately, has she?"
"No. Dropped right out of things. Went
over to France and took up with some swell
nobleman there. She quitted the stage then
for good and all, I guess."
"How long ago was that?"
"Let me see. Three years ago. And she
has been a loss--let me tell you that."
"She was clever?"
"Clever as a cartload of monkeys."
"You don't know the name of the man she
became friends with in Paris?"
"He was a swell, I know that. A Count--
or was it a Marquis? Now I come to think
of it, I believe it was a Marquis."
"And you know nothing about her since?"
"Nothing. Never even run across her accidentally
like. I bet she is tooling it round
some of these foreign resorts. Being a Marquise
to the life. You couldn't put one over
on Kitty. She would give as good as she got
any day."
"I see," said Poirot thoughtfully.
"I am sorry I can't tell you more. Monsieur
Poirot " said the other. "I would like
to be of use to you if I could. You did me a
good turn once."
"Ah, but we are quits on that; you, too, did me a good turn."
"One good turn deserves another. Ha, ha!" said Mr. Aarons.
"Your profession must be a very interesting
one," said Poirot.
"So-so," said Mr. Aarons non-committally.
"Taking the rough with the smooth, it is all right. I don't do so badly at it, all
things considered, but you have to keep your
eyes skinned. Never know what the public
will jump for next."
"Dancing has come very much to the fore
in the last few years," murmured Poirot reflectively.

"/ never saw anything in this Russian ballet, but people like it. Too highbrow for
me."
"I met one dancer out on the Riviera--
Mademoiselle Mirelle.? 5
"Mirelle? She is hot stuff, by all accounts.
There is always money going to back her--
though, so far as that goes, the girl can
dance; I have seen her, and I know what I
am talking about. I never had much to do
with her myself, but I hear she is a terror to
deal with. Tempers and tantrums all the
time."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully; "yes, so
I should imagine."
"Temperament!" said Mr. Aarons, "temperament!
That is what they call it themselves.
My missus was a dancer before she
married me, but I am thankful to say she
never had any temperament. You don't want
temperament in the home. Monsieur
Poirot."
"I agree with you, my friend; it is out of
place there."
"A woman should be calm and sympathetic, and a good cook," said Mr. Aarons.
"Mirelle has not been long before the public, has she?" asked Poirot.
"About two and a half years, that is all,"
said Mr. Aarons. "Some French Duke
started her. I hear now that she has taken
up with the ex-Prime Minister of Greece.
These are the chaps who manage to put
money away quietly."
"That is news to me," said Poirot.
"Oh, she's not one to let the grass grow
under her feet. They say that young Kettering
murdered his wife on her account. I
don't know, I am sure. Anyway, he is in
prison, and she had to look round for herself,
and pretty smart she has been about it. They
say she is wearing a ruby the size of a pigeon's
egg--not that I have ever seen a pigeon's
egg myself, but that is what they
always call it in works of fiction."
"A ruby the size of a pigeon's egg!" said
Poirot. His eyes were green and catlike.
"How interesting!"
"I had it from a friend of mine," said Mr.
Aarons. "But, for all I know, it may be coloured
glass. They are all the same, these
women--they never stop telling tall stories
about their jewels. Mirelle goes about bragging
that it has got a curse on it. 'Heart of
Fire,' I think she calls it."
"But if I remember rightly," said Poirot, "the ruby that is named "Heart of Fire' is
the centre stone in a necklace."
"There you are! Didn't I tell you there is
no end to the lies women will tell about their
jewellery? This is a single stone, hung on a
platinum chain round her neck; but, as I said
before, ten to one it is a bit of coloured
glass."
"No," said Poirot gently, "no--somehow
I do not think it is coloured glass."
-»c^
Chapter 32
Katherine and Poirot
Compare Notes
"You have changed. Mademoiselle," said
Poirot suddenly. He and Katherine were
seated opposite each other at a small table at
the Savoy.
"Yes, you have changed," he continued.
"In what way?"
"Mademoiselle, these nuances are difficult
to express."
"I am older."
"Yes, you are older. And by that I do not
mean that the wrinkles and the crows' feet
are coming. When I first saw you, Made1
moiselle, you were a looker-on at life. You
I had the quiet, amused look of one who sits
I back in the stalls and watches the play."
"And now?"
"Now, you no longer watch. It is an absurd
thing, perhaps, that I say here, but you
have the wary look of a fighter who is playing
a difficult game."
"My old lady is difficult sometimes," said
Katherine, with a smile; "but I can assure
you that I don't engage in deadly contests
with her. You must go down and see her
some day. Monsieur Poirot. I think you are
one of the people who would appreciate her
pluck and her spirit."
There was a silence while the waiter deftly
served them with chicken en casserole. When
he had departed, Poirot said:
"You have heard me speak of my friend
Hastings?--he who said that I was a human
oyster. Eh bien, Mademoiselle, I have met
my match in you. You, far more than I, play
a lone hand."
"Nonsense," said Katherine lightly.
"Never does Hercule Poirot talk nonsense.
It is as I say."
Again there was a silence. Poirot broke it
by inquiring:
"Have you seen any of our Riviera friends
since you have been back. Mademoiselle?"
"I have seen something of Major Knighton."
"A-ha!
Is that so?"
Something in Poirofs twinkling eyes
made Katherine lower hers.
"So Mr. Van Aldin remains in London?"
"Yes."
"I must try to see him to-morrow or the
next day."
"You have news for him?"
"What makes you think that?"
"I—wondered, that is all."
Poirot looked across at her with twinkling
eyes.
"And now. Mademoiselle, there is much
that you wish to ask me, I can see that. And
why not? Is not the affair of the Blue Train
our own 'Roman Policier'?"
"Yes, there are things I should like to ask
you."
"Eh bien?"
Katherine looked up with a sudden air of
resolution.
"What were you doing in Paris, Monsieur
Poirot?"
I Poirot smiled slightly.
"I made a call at the Russian Embassy."
"Oh."
"I see that that tells you nothing. But I
will not be a human oyster. No, I will lay
my cards on the table, which is assuredly a
thing that oysters do not do. You suspect,
do you not, that I am not satisfied with the
case against Derek Kettering?"
"That is what I have been wondering. I
thought, in Nice, that you had finished with
the case."
"You do not say all that you mean. Mademoiselle.
But I admit everything. It was
I--my researches--which placed Derek
Kettering where he is now. But for me the
Examining Magistrate would still be vainly
trying to fasten the crime on the Comte de
la Roche. Eh bien. Mademoiselle, what I |
have done I do not regret. I have only one
duty--to discover the truth, and that way
led straight to Mr. Kettering. But did it end
there? The police say yes, but I, Hercule
Poirot, am not satisfied."
He broke off suddenly. "Tell me. Mademoiselle, have you heard from Mademoiselle
Lenox lately?"
"One very short, scrappy letter. She is, I
think, annoyed with me for coming back to
England."
Poirot nodded.
"I had an interview with her the night that
Monsieur Kettering was arrested. It was an
interesting interview in more ways than
one."
Again he fell silent, and Katherine did not
interrupt his train of thought.
"Mademoiselle," he said at last, "I am
now on delicate ground, yet I will say this
to you. There is, I think, some one who loves
Monsieur Kettering--correct me if I am
wrong--and for her sake--well--for her
sake I hope that I am right and the police
are wrong. You know who that some one
is?"
There was a pause, then Katherine said:
"Yes--I think I know."
Poirot leant across the table towards her.
"I am not satisfied. Mademoiselle; no, I
am not satisfied. The facts, the main facts, led straight to Monsieur Kettering. But there
is one thing that has been left out of account."
"And what is that?"
"The disfigured face of the victim. I have
asked myself. Mademoiselle, a hundred
times, 'Was Derek Kettering the kind of
man who would deal that smashing blow after
having committed murder?5 What end
would it serve? What purpose would it accomplish?
Was it a likely action for one of
Monsieur Kettering's temperament? And, Mademoiselle, the answer to these questions
is profoundly unsatisfactory. Again and
again I go back to that one point--'why?5 And the only things I have to help me to a
solution of the problem are these."
He whipped out his pocket-book and extracted
something from it which he held between
his finger and thumb.
"Do you remember. Mademoiselle? You
saw me take these hairs from the rug in the
railway carriage."
Katherine leant forward, scrutinizing the
hairs keenly.
Poirot nodded his head slowly several
times.
"They suggest nothing to you, I see that, Mademoiselle. And yet--I think somehow
that you see a good deal."
"I have had ideas," said Katherine slowly, "curious ideas. That is why I ask you what
you were doing in Paris, Monsieur Poirot."
"When I wrote to you----"
"From the Ritz?"
A curious smile came over Poirot's face.
"Yes, as you say, from the Ritz. I am a
luxurious person sometimes--when a millionaire
pays."
"The Russian Embassy," said Katherine, frowning. "No, I don't see where that comes
in."
"It does not come in directly. Mademoiselle.
I went there to get certain information.
I saw a particular personage and I threatened
him--yes. Mademoiselle, I, Hercule Poirot, threatened him."
"With the police?"
"No," said Poirot drily, "with the Press
--a much more deadly weapon."
He looked at Katherine and she smiled at
him, just shaking her head.
"Are you not just turning back into an
oyster again. Monsieur Poirot?"
"No, no! I do not wish to make mysteries.
See, I will tell you everything. I suspect this
man of being the active party in the sale of
the jewels of Monsieur Van Aldin. I tax him
with it, and in the end I get the whole story
out of him. I learn where the jewels were
handed over, and I learn, too, of the man
who paced up and down outside in the
street--a man with a venerable head of white
hair, but who walked with the light, springy
step of a young man--and I give that man a
name in my own mind--the name of 'Monsieur
Ie Marquis.'"
"And now you have come to London to
see Mr. Van Aldin?"
"Not entirely for that reason. I had other
work to do. Since I have been in London I
have seen two more people--a theatrical
agent and a Harley Street doctor. From each
of them I have got certain information. Put
these things together. Mademoiselle, and see 1
if you can make of them the same as I do."
"I?"
"Yes, you. I will tell you one thing. Mademoiselle.
There has been a doubt all along
in my mind as to whether the robbery and
the murder were done by the same person.
For a long time I was not sure----"
"And now?"
"And now I know,"
There was a silence. Then Katherine lifted
her head. Her eyes were shining.
"I am not clever like you. Monsieur
Poirot. Half the things that you have been
telling me don't seem to me to point anywhere
at all. The ideas that came to me came
from such an entirely different angle----"
"Ah, but that is always so," said Poirot
quietly. "A mirror shows the truth, but
every one stands in a different place for looking
into the mirror."
"My ideas may be absurd--they may be
entirely different from yours, but----"
"Yes?"
"Tell me, does this help you at all?"
He took a newspaper cutting from her outstretched
hand. He read it and, looking up, he nodded gravely.
"As I told you. Mademoiselle, one stands
i y a
at a different angle for looking into the mirror, but it is the same mirror and the same
things are reflected there."
Katherine got up. "I must rush," she said.
"I have only just time to catch my train.
Monsieur Poirot----"
"Yes, Mademoiselle."
"It--it mustn't be much longer, you understand.
I--I can't go on much longer."
There was a break in her voice.
He patted her hand reassuringly.
"Courage, Mademoiselle, you must not
fail now; the end is very near."
Chapter 33
A New Theory
"monsieur poirot wants to see you, sir."
"Damn the fellow!" said Van Aldin.
Knighton remained sympathetically silent.

Van Aldin got up from his chair and paced
up and down.
"I suppose you have seen the cursed newspapers
this morning?"
"I have glanced at them, sir."
"Still at it hammer and tongs?"
"I am afraid so, sir."
The millionaire sat down again and
pressed his hand to his forehead.
"If I had had an idea of this," he groaned.
"I wish to God I had never got that little
Belgian to ferret out the truth. Find Ruth's
murderer--that was all I thought about."
"You wouldn't have liked your son-in-law
to go scot free?"
Van Aldin sighed.
"I would have preferred to take the law
into my own hands."
"I don't think that would have been a very
wise proceeding, sir."
"All the same--are you sure the fellow
wants to see me?"
"Yes, Mr. Van Aldin. He is very urgent
about it."
"Then I suppose he will have to. He can
come along this morning if he likes."
It was a very fresh and debonair Poirot
who was ushered in. He did not seem to see
any lack of cordiality in the millionaire's
manner, and chatted pleasantly about various
trifles. He was in London, he explained, to see his doctor. He mentioned the name
of an eminent surgeon.
"No, no, pas la guerre--a memory of my
days in the police force, a bullet of a rascally
Apache."
He touched his left shoulder and winced
realistically.
"I always consider you a lucky man. Monsieur
Van Aldin, you are not like our popular
idea of American millionaires, martyrs to the
dyspepsia."
"I am pretty tough," said Van Aldin. "I
lead a very simple life, you know; plain fare
and not too much of it."
"You have seen something of Miss Grey, have you not?" inquired Poirot, innocently
turning to the secretary.
"I--yes; once or twice," said Knighton.
He blushed slightly and Van Aldin exclaimed
in surprise:
"Funny you never mentioned to me that
you had seen her, Knighton?"
"I didn't think you would be interested,
sir."
"I like that girl very much," said Van Aldin.
"It
is a thousand pities that she should
have buried herself once more in St. Mary
Mead," said Poirot.
"It is very fine of her," said Knighton
hotly. "There are very few people who
would bury themselves down there to look
after a cantankerous old woman who has no
earthly claim on her."
"I am silent," said Poirot, his eyes twinkling
a little; "but all the same I say it is a
pity. And now. Messieurs, let us come to
business."
Both the other men looked at him in some
surprise.
"You must not be shocked or alarmed at
what I am about to say. Supposing, Mon-
sieur Van Aldin, that, after all, Monsieur
Derek Kettering did not murder his wife?"
"What?"
Both men stared at him in blank surprise.
| "Supposing, I say, that Monsieur Derek 1 Kettering did not murder his wife?"
i "Are you mad. Monsieur Poirot?"
It was Van Aldin who spoke.
"No," said Poirot, "I am not mad. I am
eccentric, perhaps--at least certain people
say so; but as regards my profession, I am
very much, as one says, 'all there." I ask you, I Monsieur Van Aldin, whether you would be
i glad or sorry if what I tell you should be the
; case?"
i Van Aldin stared at him. 1 "Naturally I should be glad," he said at
last. "Is this an exercise in suppositions, Monsieur Poirot, or are there any facts heir
hind it?"
j Poirot looked at the ceiling.
"There is an off-chance," he said quietly, "that it might be the Comte de la Roche after
all. At least I have succeeded in upsetting
his alibi."
"How did you manage that?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders modestly.
"I have my own methods. The exercise of
a little tact, a little cleverness--and the thing
is done."
"But the rubies," said Van Aldin, "these
rubies that the Count had in his possession
were false."
"And clearly he would not have committed
the crime except for the rubies. But you
are overlooking one point. Monsieur Van Aldin.
Where the rubies were concerned, some
one might have been before him."
"But this is an entirely new theory," cried
Knighton.
"Do you really believe all this rigmarole, Monsieur Poirot?" demanded the millionaire.

"The thing is not proved," said Poirot
quietly. "It is as yet only a theory, but I tell
you this. Monsieur Van Aldin, the facts are
worth investigating. You must come out
with me to the south of France and go into
the case on the spot."
"You really think this is necessary--that
I should go, I mean."
"I thought it would be what you yourself
would wish," said Poirot.
There was a hint of reproach in his tone
which was not lost upon the other.
"Yes, yes, of course," he said. "When do
you wish to start. Monsieur Poirot?"
"You are very busy at present, sir," murmured
Knighton.
But the millionaire had now made up his
mind, and he waved the other's objections
aside.
"I guess this business comes first," he
said. "All right. Monsieur Poirot, to-morrow.
What train?"
"We will go, I think, by the Blue Train," said Poirot, and he smiled.
Chapter 34
The Blue Train Again
"the millionaire's train," as it is sometimes
called, swung round a curve of line at
what seemed a dangerous speed. Van Aldin, Knighton and Poirot sat together in silence.
Knighton and Van Aldin had two compartments
connecting with each other, as Ruth
Kettering and her maid had had on the fateful
journey. Poirot's own compartment was
further along the coach.
The journey was a painful one for Van
Aldin, recalling as it did the most agonizing
memories. Poirot and Knighton conversed
occasionally in low tones without disturbing
him.
When, however, the train had completed
its slow journey round the ceinture and
reached the Gare de Lyon, Poirot became
suddenly galvanized into activity. Van Aldin
realized that part of his object in travelling
by the train had been to attempt to reconstruct the crime. Poirot himself acted every
part. He was in turn the maid, hurriedly shut
into her own compartment, Mrs. Kettering, recognizing her husband with surprise and
a trace of anxiety, and Derek Kettering discovering
that his wife was travelling on the
train. He tested various possibilities, such as
the best way for a person to conceal himself
in the second compartment.
Then suddenly an idea seemed to strike
him. He clutched at Van Aldin's arm.
"Mon Dieu, but that is something I have
not thought of! We must break our journey
in Paris. Quick, quick, let us alight at once."
Seizing suit-cases he hurried from the
train. Van Aldin and Knighton, bewildered
but obedient, followed him. Van Aldin having
once formed his opinion of Poirofs ability
was slow to part from it. At the barrier
they were held up. Their tickets were in
charge of the conductor of the train, a fact
which all three of them had forgotten.
Poirot's explanations were rapid, fluent, and impassioned, but they produced no effect
upon the stolid-faced official.
"Let us get quit of this," said Van Aldin
abruptly. "I gather you are in a hurry. Monsieur
Poirot. For God's sake pay the fares
'?"73
from Calais and let us get right on with whatever
you have got in your mind."
But Poirot's flood of language had suddenly
stopped dead, and he had the appearance
of a man turned to stone. His arm still
outflung in an impassioned gesture, remained
there as though stricken with paralysis.

"I have been an imbecile," he said simply. ^Ma foi, I lose my head nowadays. Let us
return and continue our journey quietly.
With reasonable luck the train will not have
gone."
They were only just in time, the train moving
off as Knighton, the last of the three, swung himself and his suit-case on board.
The conductor remonstrated with them
feelingly, and assisted them to carry their
luggage back to their compartments. Van
Aldin said nothing, but he was clearly disgusted
at Poirofs extraordinary conduct.
Alone with Knighton for a moment or two,
he remarked:
"This is a wildgoose chase. The man has
lost his grip on things. He has got brains up
to a point, but any man who loses his head
and scuttles round like a frightened rabbit
is no earthly darned good."
Poirot came to them in a moment or two,
3T/1
full of abject apologies and clearly so crestfallen
that harsh words would have been superfluous.
Van Aldin received his apologies
gravely, but managed to restrain himself
from making acid comments.
They had dinner on the train, and afterwards, somewhat to the surprise of the other
two, Poirot suggested that they should all
three sit up in Van Aldin's compartment.
The millionaire looked at him curiously.
"Is there anything that you are keeping
back from us. Monsieur Poirot?"
"I?" Poirot opened his eyes in innocent
surprise. "But what an idea."
Van Aldin did not answer, but he was not
satisfied. The conductor was told that he
need not make up the beds. Any surprise he
might have felt was obliterated by the largeness
of the tip which Van Aldin handed to
him. The three men sat in silence. Poirot
fidgeted and seemed restless. Presently he
turned to the secretary.
"Major Knighton, is the door of your
compartment bolted? The door into the corridor, I mean."
"Yes; I bolted it myself just now."
"Are you sure?" said Poirot.
"I will go and make sure, if you like," said
Knighton smiling.
"No, no, do not derange yourself. I will
see for myself."
He passed through the connecting door
and returned in a second or two, nodding
his head.
"Yes, yes, it is as you said. You must
pardon an old man's fussy ways."
He closed the connecting door and resumed
his place in the right-hand corner.
The hours passed. The three men dozed
fitfully, waking with uncomfortable starts.
Probably never before had three people
booked berths on the most luxurious train
available, then declined to avail themselves
of the accommodation they had paid for.
Every now and then Poirot glanced at his
watch, and then nodded his head and composed
himself to slumber once more. On one
occasion he rose from his seat and opened
the connecting door, peered sharply into the
adjoining compartment, and then returned
to his seat, shaking his head.
"What is the matter?" whispered Knighton.
"You are expecting something to happen, aren't you?"
"I have the nerves," confessed Poirot. "I
am like the cat upon the hot tiles. Every little
noise it makes me jump."
Knighton yawned.
-»t^
"Of all the darned uncomfortable journeys," he murmured. "I suppose you know
what you are playing at, Monsieur Poirot."
He composed himself to sleep as best he
could. Both he and Van Aldin had succumbed
to slumber, when Poirot, glancing
for the fourteenth time at his watch, leant
across and tapped the millionaire on the
shoulder.
"Eh? What is it?"
"In five or ten minutes. Monsieur, we
shall arrive at Lyons."
"My God!" Van Aldin's face looked white
and haggard in the dim light. "Then it must
have been about this time that poor Ruth
was killed."
He sat staring straight in front of him. His
lips twitched a little, his mind reverting back
to the terrible tragedy that had saddened his
life.
There was the usual long screaming sigh
of the brake, and the train slackened speed
and drew into Lyons. Van Aldin let down
the window and leant out.
"If it wasn't Derek--if your new theory
is correct, it is here that the man left the
train?" he asked over his shoulder.
Rather to his surprise Poirot shook his
head.
"No," he said thoughtfully, "no man left
the train, but I think--yes, I think, a woman may have done so."
Knighton gave a gasp.
"A woman?" demanded Van Aldin
sharply.
"Yes, a woman," said Poirot, nodding his
head. "You may not remember. Monsieur
Van Aldin, but Miss Grey in her evidence
mentioned that a youth in a cap and overcoat
descended on to the platform ostensibly to
stretch his legs. Me, I think that that youth
was most probably a woman."
"But who was she?"
Van Aldin's face expressed incredulity, but Poirot replied seriously and categorically.

"Her name--or the name under which she
was known, for many years--is Kitty Kidd, but you. Monsieur Van Aldin, knew her by
another name--that of Ada Mason."
Knighton sprang to his feet.
"What?" he cried.
Poirot swung round to him.
"Ah!--before I forget it." He whipped
something from a pocket and held it out.
"Permit me to offer you a cigarette--out
of your own cigarette-case. It was careless of
2TO I
you to drop it when you boarded the train
on the ceinture at Paris."
Knighton stood staring at him as though
stupefied. Then he made a movement, but
Poirot flung up his hand in a warning gesture.

"No, don't move," he said in a silky voice;
"the door into the next compartment is
open, and you are being covered from there
this minute. I unbolted the door into the
corridor when we left Paris, and our friends
the police were told to take their places there.
As I expect you know, the French police
want you rather urgently. Major Knighton
--or shall we say--Monsieur Ie Marquis?"
inc\
Chapter 35
Explanations
"explanations?"
Poirot smiled. He was sitting opposite the
millionaire at a luncheon table in the latter's
private suite at the Negresco. Facing him
was a relieved but very puzzled man. Poirot
leant back in his chair, lit one of his tiny
cigarettes, and stared reflectively at the ceiling.

"Yes, I will give you explanations. It began
with the one point that puzzled me. You
know what that point was? The disfigured
face. It is not an uncommon thing to find
when investigating a crime and it rouses an
immediate question, the question of identity.
That naturally was the first thing that
occurred to me. Was the dead woman really
Mrs. Kettering? But that line led me nowhere, for Miss Grey's evidence was positive
and very reliable, so I put that idea aside.
The dead woman was Ruth Kettering."
2on
"When did you first begin to suspect the
maid?"
"Not for some time, but one peculiar little
point drew my attention to her. The cigarette-case
found in the railway carriage and
which she told us was one which Mrs. Kettering
had given to her husband. Now that
was, on the face of it, most improbable,
seeing the terms that they were on. It awakened
a doubt in my mind as to the general
veracity of Ada Mason's statements. There
was the rather suspicious fact to be taken
into consideration, that she had only been
with her mistress for two months. Certainly
it did not seem as if she could have had
anything to do with the crime since she had
been left behind in Paris and Mrs. Kettering
had been seen alive by several people afterwards, but----"
Poirot leant forward. He raised an emphatic
forefinger and wagged it with intense
emphasis at Van Aldin.
"But I am a good detective. I suspect.
There is nobody and nothing that I do not
suspect. I believe nothing that I am told. I
say to myself: how do we know that Ada
Mason was left behind in Paris? And at first
the answer to that question seemed completely
satisfactory. There was the evidence
of your secretary. Major Knighton, a complete
outsider whose testimony might be
supposed to be entirely impartial, and there
was the dead woman's own words to the
conductor on the train. But I put the latter
point aside for the moment, because a very
curious idea--an idea perhaps fantastic and
impossible--was growing up in my mind. If
by any outside chance it happened to be true, that particular piece of testimony was worthless.

"I concentrated on the chief stumblingblock
to my theory. Major Knighton's statement
that he saw Ada Mason at the Ritz after
the Blue Train had left Paris. That seemed
conclusive enough, but yet, on examining
the facts carefully, I noted two things. First, that by a curious coincidence he, too, had
been exactly two months in your service.
Secondly, his initial letter was the same-- 'K.' Supposing--just supposing--that it
was his cigarette case which had been found
in the carriage. Then, if Ada Mason and he
were working together, and she recognized
it when we showed it to her, would she not
act precisely as she had done? At first, taken
aback, she quickly evolved a plausible theory
that would agree with Mr. Kettering's guilt. Bien entendu, that was not the original idea.
The Comte de la Roche was to be the scapegoat, though Ada Mason would not make
her recognition of him too certain, in case
he should be able to prove an alibi. Now, if
you will cast your mind back to that time, you will remember a significant thing that
happened. I suggested to Ada Mason that
the man she had seen was not the Comte de
la Roche, but Derek Kettering. She seemed
uncertain at the time, but after I had got
back to my hotel you rang me up and told
me that she had come to you and said that, on thinking it over, she was now quite convinced
that the man in question was Mr.
Kettering. I had been expecting something
of the kind. There could be but one explanation
of this sudden certainty on her part.
After my leaving your hotel, she had had
time to consult with somebody, and had received
instructions which she acted upon.
Who had given her these instructions? Major
Knighton. And there was another very small
point, which might mean nothing or might
mean a great deal. In casual conversation
Knighton had talked of a jewel robbery in
Yorkshire in a house where he was staying.
Perhaps a mere coincidence--perhaps another
small link in the chain."
"But there is one thing I do not understand. Monsieur Poirot. I guess I must be
dense or I would have seen it before now.
Who was the man in the train at Paris? Derek
Kettering or the Comte de la Roche?"
"That is the simplicity of the whole thing. There was no man. Ah--mille tonnerres! --
do you not see the cleverness of it all? Whose
word have we for it that there ever was a
man there? Only Ada Mason's. And we believe
in Ada Mason because of Knighton's
evidence that she was left behind in Paris."
"But Ruth herself told the conductor that
she had left her maid behind there," demurred
Van Aldin.
"Ah! I am coming to that. We have Mrs.
Kettering's own evidence there, but, on the
other hand, we have not really got her evidence, because. Monsieur Van Aldin, a dead
woman cannot give evidence. It is not her evidence, but the evidence of the conductor
of the train--a very different affair altogether."

"So you think the man was lying?"
"No, no, not at all. He spoke what he
thought to be the truth. But the woman who
told him that she had left her maid in Paris
was not Mrs. Kettering."
Van Aldin stared at him.
"Monsieur Van Aldin, Ruth Kettering
was dead before the train arrived at the Gare
de Lyon. It was Ada Mason, dressed in her
mistress's very distinctive clothing, who purchased
a dinner basket and who made that
very necessary statement to the conductor."
"Impossible!"
"No, no. Monsieur Van Aldin; not impossible.
Lesfemmes, they look so much alike
nowadays that one identifies them more by
their clothing than by their faces. Ada Mason
was the same height as your daughter.
Dressed in that very sumptuous fur coat and
the little red lacquer hat jammed down over
her eyes, with just a bunch of auburn curls
showing over each ear, it was no wonder that
the conductor was deceived. He had not previously
spoken to Mrs. Kettering, you remember.
True, he had seen the maid just
for a moment when she handed him the tickets, but his impression had been merely that
of a gaunt, black-clad female. If he had been
an unusually intelligent man, he might have
gone so far as to say that mistress and maid were not unlike, but it is extremely unlikely
that he would even think that. And remember,
Ada Mason, or Kitty Kidd, was an actress, able to change her appearance and tone
of voice at a moment's notice. No, no, there
was no danger of his recognizing the maid
in the mistress's clothing, but there was the
danger that when he came to discover the
body he might realize it was not the woman
he had talked to the night before. And now
we see the reason for the disfigured face. The
chief danger that Ada Mason ran was that
Katherine Grey might visit her compartment
after the train left Paris, and she provided
against that difficulty by ordering a dinner
basket and by locking herself in her compartment."

"But who killed Ruth--and when?" "First, bear it in mind that the crime was
planned and undertaken by the two of
them--Knighton and Ada Mason, working
together. Knighton was in Paris that day on
your business. He boarded the train somewhere
on its way round the ceinture. Mrs.
Kettering would be surprised, but she would
be quite unsuspicious. Perhaps he draws her
attention to something out the window, and
as she turns to look he slips the cord round
her neck--and the whole thing is over in a
second or two. The door of the compartment
is locked, and he and Ada Mason set to work.
They strip off the dead woman's outer
clothes. Mason and Knighton roll the body
up in a rug and put it on the seat in the
adjoining compartment amongst the bags
ooz:
and suitcases. Knighton drops off the train 5
taking the jewel-case containing the rubies
with him. Since the crime is not supposed
to have been committed until nearly twelve
hours later he is perfectly safe, and his evidence
and the supposed Mrs. Kettering's
words to the conductor will provide a perfect
alibi for his accomplice.
"At the Gare de Lyon Ada Mason gets a
dinner basket, and shutting herself into the
toilet compartment she quickly changes into
her mistress's clothes, adjusts two false
bunches of auburn curls, and generally
makes up to resemble her as closely as possible.
When the conductor comes to make
up the bed, she tells him the prepared story
about having left her maid behind in Paris, and whilst he is making up the berth, she
stands looking out of the window, so that
her back is towards the corridor and people
passing along there. That was a wise precaution,
because, as we know. Miss Grey was
one of those passing, and she among others, was willing to swear that Mrs. Kettering was
still alive at that hour."
"Go on," said Van Aldin.
"Before getting to Lyons, Ada Mason arranged
her mistress's body in the bunk, folded up the dead woman's clothes neatly
on the end of it, and herself changed into a
man's clothes and prepared to leave the
train. When Derek Kettering entered his
wife's compartment, and, as he thought, saw
her asleep in her berth, the scene had been
set, and Ada Mason was hidden in the next
compartment waiting for the moment to
leave the train unobserved. As soon as the
conductor had swung himself down on to
the platform at Lyons, she follows, slouching
along as though just taking a breath of air.
At a moment when she is unobserved, she
hurriedly crosses to the other platform, and
takes the first train back to Paris and the
Ritz Hotel. Her name has been registered
there as taking a room the night before by
one of Knighton's female accomplices. She
has nothing to do but wait there placidly for
your arrival. The jewels are not, and never
have been, in her possession. No suspicion
attaches to him, and, as your secretary, he
brings them to Nice without the least fear
of discovery. Their delivery there to Monsieur
Papopolous is already arranged for and
they are entrusted to Mason at the last moment
to hand over to the Greek. Altogether
a very neatly planned coup, as one would
expect from a master of the game such as the
Marquis."
388
"And you honestly mean that Richard
Knighton is a well-known criminal, who has
been at this business for years?"
Poirot nodded.
"One of the chief assets of the gentleman
called the Marquis was his plausible, ingratiating
manner. You fell a victim to his
charm, Monsieur Van Aldin, when you engaged
him as a secretary on such a slight
acquaintanceship.? ?
"I could have sworn that he never angled
for the post," cried the millionaire.
"It was very astutely done--so astutely
done that it deceived a man whose knowledge
of other men is as great as yours is."
"I looked up his antecedents too. The fellow's
record was excellent."
"Yes, yes; that was part of the game. As
Richard Knighton his life was quite free
from reproach. He was well born, well connected, did honourable service in the War, and seemed altogether above suspicion; but
when I came to glean information about the
mysterious Marquis, I found many points of 1 similarity. Knighton spoke French like a
Frenchman, he had been in America, France, and England at much the same time
as the Marquis was operating. The Marquis
was last heard of as engineering various jewel
robberies in Switzerland, and it was in Switzerland
that you had come across Major
Knighton; and it was at precisely that time
that the first rumours were going round of
your being in treaty for the famous rubies."
"But why murder?" murmured Van Aldin
brokenly. "Surely a clever thief could have
stolen the jewels without running his head
into a noose."
Poirot shook his head. "This is not the
first murder that lies to the Marquis's
charge. He is a killer by instinct; he believes, too, in leaving no evidence behind him.
Dead men and women tell no tales.
"The Marquis had an intense passion for
famous and historical jewels. He laid his
plans far beforehand by installing himself as
your secretary and getting his accomplice to
obtain the situation of maid with your
daughter, for whom he guessed the jewels
were destined. And, though this was his matured
and carefully thought-out plan, he did
not scruple to attempt a short-cut by hiring
a couple of Apaches to waylay you in Paris
on the night you bought the jewels. That
plan failed, which hardly surprised him, I
think. This plan was, so he thought, completely
safe. No possible suspicion could attach
to Richard Knighton. But like all great
men--and the Marquis was a great man--
he had his weaknesses. He fell genuinely in
love with Miss Grey, and suspecting her liking
for Derek Kettering, he could not resist
the temptation to saddle him with the crime
when the opportunity presented itself. And
now. Monsieur Van Aldin, I am going to tell
you something very curious. Miss Grey is
not a fanciful woman by any means, yet she
firmly believes that she felt your daughter's
presence beside her one day in the Casino
Gardens at Monte Carlo, just after she had
been having a long talk with Knighton. She
was convinced, she says, that the dead
woman was urgently trying to tell her something, and it suddenly came to her that what
the dead woman was trying to say was that
Knighton was her murderer! The idea
seemed so fantastic at the time that Miss
Grey spoke of it to no one. But she was so
convinced of its truth that she acted on it--
wild as it seemed. She did not discourage
Knighton's advances, and she pretended to
him that she was convinced of Derek Kettering's
guilt."
"Extraordinary," said Van Aldin.
"Yes, it is very strange. One cannot explain
these things. Oh, by the way, there is
one little point that baffled me considerably.
Your secretary has a decided limp--the result
of a wound that he received in the War.
Now the Marquis most decidedly did not
limp. That was a stumbling-block. But Miss
Lenox Tamplin happened to mention one
day that Knighton's limp had been a surprise
to the surgeons who had been in charge of
the case in her mothers hospital. That suggested
camouflage. When I was in London
I went to the surgeon in question, and I got
several technical details from him which confirmed
me in that belief. I mentioned the
name of that surgeon in Knighton's hearing
the day before yesterday. The natural thing
would have been for Knighton to mention
that he had been attended by him during the
War, but he said nothing--and that little
point, if nothing else, gave me the last final
assurance that my theory of the crime was
correct. Miss Grey, too, provided me with a
cutting, showing that there had been a robbery
at Lady Tamplin's hospital during the
time that Knighton had been there. She realized
that I was on the same track as herself
when I wrote to her from the Ritz in Paris.
"I had some trouble in my inquiries there, but I got what I wanted--evidence that Ada
Mason arrived on the morning after the
crime and not on the evening of the day
before."
There was a long silence, then the millionaire
stretched out a hand to Poirot across
the table.
"I guess you know what this means to me, Monsieur Poirot," he said huskily. "I am
sending you round a cheque in the morning, but no cheque in the world will express what
I feel about what you have done for me. You
are the goods. Monsieur Poirot. Every time, you are the goods."
Poirot rose to his feet; his chest swelled.
"I am only Hercule Poirot," he said modestly, "yet, as you say, in my own way I am
a big man, even as you also are a big man.
I am glad and happy to have been of service
to you. Now I go to repair the damages
caused by travel. Alas! my excellent Georges
is not with me."
In the lounge of the hotel he encountered
a friend--the venerable Monsieur Papopolous, his daughter Zia beside him.
"I thought you had left Nice, Monsieur
Poirot," murmured the Greek as he took the
detective's affectionately proffered hand.
"Business compelled me to return, my
dear Monsieur Papopolous."
"Business?"
"Yes, business. And talking of business, I hope your health is better, my dear
friend?"
"Much better. In fact, we are returning
to Paris tomorrow."
"I am enchanted to hear such good news.
You have not completely ruined the Greek
ex-Minister, I hope."
"I?"
"I understand you sold him a very wonderful
ruby which--strictly entre nous--is
being worn by Mademoiselle Mirelle, the
dancer?"
"Yes," murmured Monsieur Papopolous;
"yes, that is so."
"A ruby not unlike the famous 'Heart of
Fire\"
"It has points of resemblance, certainly,"
said the Greek casually.
"You have a wonderful hand with jewels, Monsieur Papopolous. I congratulate you.
Mademoiselle Zia, I am desolate that you are
returning to Paris so speedily. I had hoped
to see some more of you now that my business
is accomplished."
"Would one be indiscreet if one asked
what that business was?" asked Monsieur
Papopolous.
"Not at all, not at all. I have just succeeded
in laying the Marquis by the heels."
A far-away look came over Monsieur Papopolous'
noble countenance.
"The Marquis?" he murmured; "now
why does that seem familiar to me? No--I
cannot recall it."
"You would not, I am sure," said Poirot.
"I refer to a very notable criminal and jewel
robber. He has just been arrested for the
murder of the English lady, Madame Kettering."

"Indeed? How interesting these things
are!"
A polite exchange of farewells followed, and when Poirot was out of earshot. Monsieur
Papopolous turned to his daughter.
"Zia," he said, with feeling, "that man is
the devil!"
"I like him."
"I like him myself," admitted Monsieur
Papopolous. "But he is the devil, all the
same."
Chapter 36
By the Sea
the mimosa was nearly over. The scent of
it in the air was faintly unpleasant. There
were pink geraniums twining along the balustrade
of Lady Tamplin's villa, and masses
of carnations below sent up a sweet, heavy
perfume. The Mediterranean was at its
bluest. Poirot sat on the terrace with Lenox
Tamplin. He had just finished telling her the
same story he had told to Van Aldin two
days before. Lenox had listened to him with
absorbed attention, her brows knitted and
her eyes sombre.
When he had finished she said simply:
"And Derek?"
"He was released yesterday."
"And he has gone--where?"
"He left Nice last night."
"For St. Mary Mead?"
"Yes, for St. Mary Mead."
There was a pause.
"I was wrong about Katherine," said
Lenox. "I thought she did not care."
"She is very reserved. She trusts no one."
"She might have trusted me," said Lenox, with a shade of bitterness.
"Yes," said Poirot gravely, "she might
have trusted you. But Mademoiselle Katherine
has spent a great deal of her life listening, and those who have listened do not
find it easy to talk; they keep their sorrows
and joys to themselves and tell no one."
"I was a fool," said Lenox; "I thought she
really cared for Knighton. I ought to have
known better. I suppose I thought so
because--well, I hoped so."
Poirot took her hand and gave it a little
friendly squeeze. "Courage, Mademoiselle,"
he said gently.
Lenox looked very straight out across the
sea, and her face, in its ugly rigidity, had for
the moment a tragic beauty.
"Oh, well," she said at last, "it would not
have done. I am too young for Derek; he is
like a kid that has never grown up. He wants
the Madonna touch."
There was a long silence, then Lenox
turned to him quickly and impulsively. "But
I did help. Monsieur Poirot--at any rate I
did help."
"Yes, Mademoiselle. It was you who gave
me the first inkling of the truth when you
said that the person who committed the
crime need not have been on the train at all.
Before that, I could not see how the thing
had been done."
Lenox drew a deep breath.
"I am glad," she said; "at any rate—that
is something."
From far behind them there came a longdraw-out
scream of an engine's whistle.
"That is that damned Blue Train," said
Lenox. "Trains are relentless things, aren't
they. Monsieur Poirot? People are murdered
and die, but they go on just the same. I am
talking nonsense, but you know what I
mean."
"Yes, yes, I know. Life is like a train,
Mademoiselle. It goes on. And it is a good
thing that that is so."
"Why?"
"Because the train gets to its journey's end
at last, and there is a proverb about that in
your language. Mademoiselle."
"'Journeys end in lovers meeting.'"
Lenox laughed. "That is not going to be true
for me."
9 99
"Yes—yes, it is true. You are young,
younger than you yourself know. Trust the
ff\0
train, Mademoiselle, for it is Ie bon Dieu who
drives it."
The whistle of the engine came again.
"Trust the train. Mademoiselle," murmured
Poirot again. "And trust Hercule
Poirot. He knows."