Death On The Nile

Linnet Ridgeway!

"That's Her." said Mr. Burnaby, the landlord of the Three Crowns.

He nudged his companion.

The two men stared with round bucolic eyes and slightly open mouths.

A big scarlet Rolls-Royce had just stopped in front of the local post office.

A girl jumped out, a girl without a hat and wearing a frock that looked (but only looked) simple. A girl with golden hair and straight autocratic features a girl with a lovely shape a girl such as was seldom seen in MaltonunderWode.

With a quick imperative step she passed into the post office.

"That's her!'! said Mr. Burnaby again. And he went on in a low awed voice.

"Millions she's got .... Going to spend thousands on the place. Swimming pools there's going to be, and Italian gardens and a ballroom and a half of the house pulled down and rebuilt . . ." "She'll bring money into the town," said his friend.

He was a lean seedy-looking man. His tone was envious and grudging.

Mr. Burnaby agreed.

"Yes, it's a great thing for Malton-under-Wode. A great thing it is." Mr. Burnaby was complacent about it. "Wake us all up proper," he added.

"Bit of a difference from Sir George," said the other.

"Ah, it was the 'orses did for him," said Mr. Burnaby indulgently. "Never 'ad no luck." "What did he get for the place?" "A cool sixty thousand, so I've heard." The lean man whistled.

Mr. Burnaby went on triumphantly: "And they say she'll have spent another sixty thousand before she's finished!" "Wicked!" said the lean man. "Where'd she get all that money from?" "America, so I've heard.

Her mother was the only daughter of one of those millionaire blokes. Quite like the pictures, isn't it?" The girl came out of the post office and climbed into the car.

As she drove off the lean man followed her with his eyes.

He muttered: "It seems all wrong to me her looking like that. Money and looks it's too much! If a girl's as rich as that she's no right to be a good-looker as well. And she is a good-looker... Got everything that girl has. Doesn't seem fair..."

Extract from the social column of the Daily Blague.

"Among those supping at Chez Ma Tante I noticed beautiful Linnet Ridgeway. She was with the Hon. Joanna Southwood, Lord Windlesham and Mr. Toby Bryce. Miss Ridgeway, as everyone knows, is the daughter of Melhuish Ridgeway who married Anna Hartz. She inherits from her grandfather, Leopold Hartz, an immense fortune. The lovely Linnet is the sensation of the moment, and it is rumoured that an engagement may be announced shortly. Certainly Lord Windlesham seemed very pris!"

The Hon. Joanna Southwood said: "Darling, i think it's going to be all perfectly marvellous!" She was sitting in Linnet Ridgeway's bedroom at Wode Hall.

From the window the eye passed over the gardens to open country with blue shadows of woodlands.

"It's rather perfect, isn't it?" said Linnet.

She leaned her arms on the window-sill. Her face was eager, alive, dynamic.

Beside her, Joanna Southwood seemed, somehow, a little dim a tall, thin young woman of twenty-seven, with a long clever face and freakishly plucked eyebrows.

"And you've done so much in the time! Did you have lots of architects and things?" "Three." "What are architects like? I don't think I've ever met any." "They were all right. I found them rather unpractical sometimes." "Darling, you soon put that right! You are the most practical creature!" Joanna picked up a string of pearls from the dressing-table.

"I suppose these are real, aren't they, Linnet?" "Of course." "I know it's 'of course' to you, my sweet, but it wouldn't be to most people.

Heavily cultured or even Woolworth! Darling, they really are incredible, so exquisitely matched. They must be worth the most fabulous sums!" "Rather vulgar, you think?" "No, not at all, just pure beauty. What are they worth?" "About fifty thousand." "What a lovely lot of money! Aren't you afraid of having them stolen?" "No, I always wear them and anyway they're insured." "Let me wear them till dinner-time, will you, darling? It would give me such a thrill." Linnet laughed.

"Of course, if you like." "You know, Linnet, I really do envy you. You've simply got everything..Here you are at twenty, your own mistress, with any amount of money, looks, superb health. You've even got brains! When are you twenty-one?" "Next June. I shall have a grand coming-of-age party in London."

"And then are you going to marry Charles Windlesham? All the dreadful little gossip writers are getting so excited about it. And he really is frightfully devoted." Linnet shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't know. I don't really want to marry any one yet." "Darling, how right you are! It's never quite the same afterwards, is it?"

The telephone shrilled and Linnet went to it.

"Yes? Yes?" The butler's voice answered her.

"Miss de Bellefort is on the line. Shall I put her through?" "Bellefort? Oh, of course, yes, put her through."

A click and a voice, an eager, soft, slightly breathless voice.

"Hallo, is that Miss Ridgeway? Linnet"

'Jackie darling.t I haven't heard anything "I know. It's awful. Linnet, I want to see "Darling, can't you come down here? My "That's just what I want to do." "Well, jump into a train or a car." "Right, I will. A frightfully dilapidated of you for ages and ages" you terribly." new toy. I'd love to show it to you." two-seater. I bought it for fifteen pounds and some days it goes beautifully. But it has moods. If I haven't arrived by tea-time you'll know it's had a mood. So long, my sweet." Linnet replaced the receiver. She crossed back to Joanna.Hercule Poirot looked on, registering impressions in his neat orderly mind.

How bored and weary most of the faces were! Some of those stout men, however, were enjoying

themselves . . . whereas a patient endurance seemed to be the sentiment exhibited on their partners' faces. The fat woman in purple was looking radiant .... Undoubtedly the fat had certain compensations in life . . . a gustos-denied to those of more fashionable contours.

A good sprinkling of young peoplesome vacant looking, some bored, some definitely unhappy. How absurd to call youth the time of happiness--youth the time of greatest vulnerability!

His glance softened as it rested on one particular couple. A well-matched pair, tall broad-shouldered man, slender delicate girl. Two bodies that moved in a perfect rhythm of happiness. Happiness in the place, the hour, and in each other.

The dance stopped abruptly. Hands clapped and it started again. After a second encore the couple returned to their table close by Poirot.

The girl was flushed, laughing. As she sat, he could study her face as it was lifted laughing to her

companion.

There was something else beside laughter in her eyes.

Hercule Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

"She cares too much, that little one," he said to himself. "It is not safe. No, it is not safe." And then a word caught his ear. Egypt.

Their voices came to him clearly, the girl's.young, fresh, arrogant with just a trace of soft-sounding

foreign Rs, and the man's pleasant, low-toned, well-bred English.

"I'm not counting my chickens before they're hatched, Simon. I tell you Linnet won't let us down!" "I might let her down." "Nonsense it's just the right job for you." "As a matter of fact I think it is . . . I

haven't really any doubts as to my capability. And I mean to make good for your sake!" The girl laughed softly, a laugh of pure happiness.

"We'll wait three months to make sure you don't get the sack. And then.." "And then I'll endow thee with my worldly goods that's the hang of it, isn't it?" "And as I say, we'll go to Egypt for our

honeymoon. Damn the expense! I've always wanted to go to Egypt all my life. The Nile and the pyramids and the sand..." He said, his voice slightly indistinct: "We'll see it together, Jackie... together. Won't it be marvelous?" "I wonder. Will it be as marvellous to you as it is to me? Do you really care as much as I do?" Her voice was suddenly sharp, her eyes dilated, almost with fear.

The man's answer came with an equal sharpness: "Don't be absurd, Jackie." But the girl repeated: "I wonder..." Then she shrugged hr shoulders: "Let's dance." Hercule Poirot murmured to himself: "Un qui aime et un qui se laisse aimer. Yes, I wonder too." Joanna Southwood said:

"And suppose he's a terrible tough?"

Linnet shook her head.

"Oh, he won't be. I can trust Jacqueline's taste."

Joanna murmured:

"Ah, but people don't run true to form in love affairs."

Linnet shook her head impatiently. Then she changed the subject. "I must go and see Mr. Pierce about those plans." "Plans?"

"Yes, some dreadful insanitary old cottages. I'm having them pulled down and the people moved."

"How sanitary and public-spirited of you, darling."

"They'd have had to go anyway. Those cottages would have overlooked my new swimming pool."

"Do the people who live in them like going?"

"Most of them are delighted. One or two are being rather stupid about it really tiresome, in fact. They don't seem to realise how vastly improved their living conditions will be!"

"But you're being quite high-handed about it, I presume." "My dear Joanna, it's to their advantage really."

"Yes, dear, I'm sure it is. Compulsory benefit." Linnet frowned. Joanna laughed.

"Come now, you are a tyrant, admit it. A beneficent tyrant if you like!" "I'm not the least bit a tyrant." "But you like your own way!" "Not especially."

"Linnet Ridgeway, you can look me in the face and tell me of any one occasion on which you've failed to do exactly as you wanted?"

"Heaps of times."

"Oh, yes, 'heaps of times' just like that but no concrete example. And you simply can't think up one, darling, however hard you try! The triumphal progress of Linnet Ridgeway in her golden car." Linnet said sharply: "You think I'm selfish?"

"No, just irresistible. The combined effect of money and charm. Everything goes down before you what you can't buy with cash you buy with a smile. Result:

Linnet Ridgeway, the Girl Who Has Everything." "Don't be ridiculous, Joanna?

"Well, haven't you got anything?"

"I suppose I have .... It sounds rather disgusting somehow!"

"Of course it's disgusting, darling! You'll probably get terribly bored and blas by and by. In the meantime enjoy the triumphal progress in the golden car. Only I wonder, I really do wonder, what will happen when you want to go down a street which has a board up saying No Thoroughfare.'

"Don't be idiotic, Joanna." As Lord Windlesham joined them Linnet said, turning to him. "Joanna is saying the nastiest things to me."

"That's my oldest friend, Jacqueline de Bellefort. We were together at a convent in Paris. She's had the most terrible bad luck. Her father was a French Count, her mother was American, a Southerner.

The father went off with some woman, and her mother lost all her money in the Wall Street crash. Jackie was left absolutely broke. I don't know how she's managed to get along the last two years." Joanna was polishing her deep blood-colored nails with her friend's nail pad.

She leaned back with her head on one side scrutinizing the effect.

"Darling," she drawled, "won't that be rather tiresome? If any misfortunes happen to my friends I always drop them at once.t It sounds heartless, but it saves such a lot of trouble later! They always want to borrow money off you, or else they start a dress-making business and you have to get the most terrible clothes from them. Or they paint lampshades, or do Batik scarves." "So if I lost all my money, you'd drop me tomorrow?" "Yes, darling, I would. You can't say I'm not honest about it! I only like successful people. And you'll find that's true of nearly everybody only most people won't admit it. They just say that 'really they can't put up with Mary or Emily or Pamela any more! Her troubles have made her so bitter and peculiar, poor dear!'" "How beastly you are, Joanna!" "I'm only on the make, like everyone else." "I'm not on the make!" "For obvious reasons! You don't have to be sordid when good-looking, A middle-aged American trustees pay you over a vast allowance every quarter." "And you're wrong about Jacqueline," said Linnet. "She's not a sponge. I've wanted to help her but she won't let me. She's as proud as the devil." "What's she in such a hurry to see you for? I'll bet she wants something! You just wait and see." "She sounded excited about something," admitted Linnet. "Jackie always did get frightfully worked up over things. She once stuck a penknife into someone!" "Darling, how thrilling!"

"A boy who was teasing a dog. Jackie tried to get him to stop. He wouldn't. She pulled him and shook him but he was much stronger than she was, and at last, she whipped out a penknife and plunged it right into him. There was the most awful row!"

"I should think so. It sounds most uncomfortable!"

Linnet's maid entered the room. With a murmured word of apology, she took down a dress from the wardrobe and went out of the room with it.

"What's the matter with Marie?" asked Joanna. "She's been crying."

"Poor thing. You know I told you she wanted to marry a man who has a job in Egypt. She didn't know much about him so I thought I'd better make sure he was all right. It turned out that he had a wife already and three children." "What a lot of enemies you must make, Linnet." "Enemies?" Linnet looked surprised.

Joanna nodded and helped herself to a cigarette.

"Enemies, my sweet. You're so devastatingly efficient. And you're so frightfully good at doing the right thing."

Linnet laughed.

"Why, I haven't got an enemy in the world!" Lord Windlesham sat under the cedar tree. His eyes

rested on the graceful proportions of Wode Hall. There was nothing to mar its old-world beauty, the new buildings and additions were out of sight around the corner. It was a fair and peaceful sight bathed in the autumn sunshine. Nevertheless, as he gazed, it was no longer Wode Hall that Charles Windlesham saw.

Instead, he seemed to see a more imposing Elizabethan mansion, a long sweep of park, a bleaker

background .... It was his own family seat, Charltonbury, and in the foreground stood a figure girl's figure with bright golden hair and an eager confident face . . . Linnet as mistress of Charltonbury!

He felt very hopeful. That refusal of hers had not been at all a definite refusal.

It had been little more than a plea for time. Well, he could afford to wait for a little...

How amazingly suitable the whole thing was. It was certainly advisable that he should marry money, but not such a matter of necessity that he could regard himself as forced to put his own feelings on one side.

And he loved Linnet. He would have wanted to marry her even if she had been practically penniless instead of one of the richest girls in England. Only, fortunately, she was one of the richest girls in England ....

His mind played with attractive plans for the future. The Mastership of the Roxdale perhaps, the

restoration of the west wing, no need to let the Scotch shooting ....

Charles Windlesham dreamed in the sun.

It was four o'clock when the dilapidated little two-seater stopped with the sound of crunching gravel. A girl got out of it, a small slender creature with a mop of dark hair. She ran up the steps and tugged at the bell.

A few minutes later she was being ushered into the long stately drawing-room, and an ecclesiastical butler was saying with the proper mournful intonation: "Miss de Bellefort." "Linnet!" "Jackie!" Windlesham stood a little aside, watching sympathetically as this fiery little creature flung herself open-armed upon Linnet.

"Lord Windlesham, Miss de Bellefort, my best friend." A pretty child, he thought not really pretty but decidedly attractive with her dark curly hair and her enormous eyes. He murmured a few tactful nothings and then managed unobtrusively to leave the two friends together.

Jacqueline pounced in a fashion that Linnet remembered as being characteristic of her.

"Windlesham? Windlesham? That's the man the papers always say you're going to marry! Are you, Linnet? Are you?" Linnet murmured: "Perhaps." "Darlin, I'm so glad! He looks nice." "Oh, don't make up your mind about it. I haven't made up my own mind yet." "Of course not! Queens always proceed with due deliberation to the choosing of a consort!" "Don't be ridiculous, Jackie." "But you are a queen, Linnet! You always were. Sa Majesty, la Reine Linette. Linette la blonde! And I'm the queen's confidante! The trusted Maid of Honour." "What nonsense you talk, Jackie, darling. Where have you been all this time? You just disappear. And you never write." "I hate writing letters. Where have I been? Oh, about three parts submerged, darling. In JOBS, you know. Grim jobs with grim women!" "Darling, I wish you'd!"

"Take the queen's bounty? Well, frankly darling, that's what I'm here for. No, not to borrow money. It's not got to that yet! But I've come to ask a great big important favor!" "go on." "If you're going to marry the Windlesham man you'll understand, perhaps." Linnet looked puzzled for a minute, then her face cleared.

"Jackie, do you mean?" "Yes, darling, I'm engaged!" "So that's it! I thought you were looking particularly alive somehow. You always do, of course, but even more than usual." "That's just what I feel like." "Tell me all about him." "His name's Simon Doyle. He's big and square and incredibly simple and boyish and utterly adorable! He's poor, got no money. He's what you call 'county' all right, but the very impoverished county, a younger son and all that. His people come from Devonshire. He loves country and country things. And for the last five years, he's been in the city in a stuffy office. And now they're cutting down and he's out of a job. Linnet, I shall die if I can't marry him! I shall die! I shall die! I shall die... I" "Don't be ridiculous, Jackie." "I shall die, I tell you! I'm crazy about him. He's crazy about me. We can't live without each other." "Darling, you have got it badly!" "I know. It's awful, isn't it? This love business gets hold of you and you can't do anything about it." She paused for a minute. Her dark eyes dilated, looked suddenly tragic. She gave a little shiver.

"It's even frightening sometimes! Simon and I were made for each other. I shall never care for anyone else. And you've got to help us, Linnet. I heard you'd bought this place and it put an idea into my head.

Listen, you'll have to have a land agent, perhaps two. I want you to give the job to Simon." "Oh!" Linnet was startled.

Jacqueline rushed on.

"He's got all that sort of thing at his finger-tips. He knows all about estates was brought up on one. And he's got his business training too. Oh, Linnet, you will give him a job, won't you, for love of me? If.he doesn't make good, sack him. But he will. And we can live in a little house and I shall see lots of you and everything in the garden will be too, too divine." She got up.

"Say you will, Linnet. Say you will. Beautiful Linnet! Tall golden Linnet! My own very special Linnet! Say you will." "Jackie!" "You will?" Linnet burst out laughing.

"Ridiculous Jackie! Bring along your young man and let me have a look at him and we'll talk it over."

Jackie darted at her, kissing her exuberantly: "Darling Linnet, you're a real friend! I knew you were. You wouldn't let me down ever. You're just the loveliest thing in the world. Goodbye." "But, Jackie, you're staying." "Me? No, I'm not. I'm going back to London and tomorrow I'll come back and bring Simon and we'll settle it all up. You'll adore him. He really is a pet." "But can't you wait and just have tea?" "No, I can't wait, Linnet. I'm too excited. I must get back and tell Simon. I know I'm mad, darling, but I can't help it. Marriage will cure me, I expect. It always seems to have a very sobering effect on people." She turned at the door, stood a moment, then rushed back for a last quick bird-like embrace.

"Dear Linnet, there's no one like you."

M. Gaston Blondin, the proprietor of that modish little restaurant Chez Ma Tante, was not a man who delighted to honor many of his clientele. The rich, the beautiful, the notorious and the well-born might wait in vain to be signaled out and paid special attention. Only in the rarest cases did M. Blondin, with gracious condescension, greet a guest, accompany him to a privileged table, and exchange with him suitable and apposite remarks.

On this particular night, M. Blondin had exercised his royal prerogative three times, once for a duchess, once for a famous racing peer, and once for a little man of comical appearance with immense black mustaches and who, a casual onlooker would have thought, could bestow no favor on Chez Ma Tante by his presence there.

M. Blondin, however, was positively fulsome in his attentions.

Though clients had been told for the last half-hour that a table was not to be had, one now mysteriously appeared, placed in a most favorable position. M.Blondin conducted the client to it with every appearance of empressement.

"But, naturally, for you there is always a table, M. Poirot! How I wish that you would honor us oftener."

Hercule Poirot smiled, remembering that past incident wherein a dead body, a waiter, M. Blondin, and a very lovely lady had played a part.

"You are too amiable, M. Blondin," he said.

"And you are alone, M. Poirot?" "Yes, I am alone." "Oh, well, Jules here will compose for you a little

meal that will be a pome, positively a poem! Women, however charming, have this disadvantage, they distract the mind from food! You will enjoy your dinner, M. Poirot, I promise you that. Now, as to wine!" A technical conversation ensued. Jules, the maitre d'hotel, assisting.

Before departing, M. Blondin lingered a moment, lowering his voice confidentially.

"You have grave affairs on hand?" Poirot shook his head.

"I am, alas, a man of leisure," he said sadly. "I have made the economies in my time and I have now the means to enjoy a life of idleness." "I envy you." "No, no, you would be unwise to do so. I can assure you, it is not so gay as it sounds." He sighed. "How true is the saying that man was forced to invent work in order to escape the strain of having to think." M. Blondin threw up his hands.

"But there is so much! There is a travel!" "Yes, there is travel. Already I have done not so badly. This winter I shall visit Egypt, I think. The climate, they say, is superbly One will escape from the fogs, the greyness, the monotony of the constantly falling rain." "Ah! Egypt" breathed M. Blondin.

"One can even voyage there now, I believe, by train, escaping all sea travel except the Channel." "Ah, the sea, it does not agree with you?" Hercule Poirot shook his head and shuddered slightly.

"I, too," said M. Blondin with sympathy. "Curious the effect it has upon the stomach." "But only upon certain stomachs! There are people on whom the motion makes no impression whatever. They actually enjoy it!" "An unfairness of the good God," said M. Blondin.

He shook his head sadly and brooding on the impious thought, withdrew.

Smooth-footed, deft-handed waiters ministered to the table. Toast Melba, butter, an ice-pail, all the adjuncts to a meal of quality.

The negro orchestra broke into an ecstasy of strange discordant noise. London danced.

Hercule Poirot looked on, registering impressions in his neat orderly mind.

How bored and weary most of the faces were! Some of those stout men, however, were enjoying

themselves . . . whereas a patient endurance seemed to be the sentiment exhibited on their partners' faces. The fat woman in purple was looking radiant. Undoubtedly the fat had certain compensations in life . . . a zest, a gustos-denied to those of more fashionable contours.

A good sprinkling of young people some vacant looking, some bored, some definitely unhappy. How absurd to call youth the time of happening youth the time of greatest vulnerability!

His glance softened as it rested on one particular couple. A well-matched pair, tall broad-shouldered man, slender delicate girl. Two bodies that moved in a perfect rhythm of happiness. Happiness in the place, the hour, and in each other.

The dance stopped abruptly. Hands clapped and it started again. After a second encore, the couple returned to their table close by Poirot.

The girl was flushed, laughing. As she sat, he could study her face as it was lifted laughing to her

companion.

There was something else besides laughter in her eyes.

Hercule Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

"She cares too much, that little one," he said to himself. "It is not safe. No, it is not safe." And then a word caught his ear. Egypt.

Their voices came to him clearly the girls, young, fresh, arrogant with just a trace of soft-sounding

foreign, and the man's pleasant, low-toned, well-bred English.

"I'm not counting my chickens before they're hatched, Simon. I tell you Linnet won't let us down!" "I might let her down." "Nonsense it's just the right job for you." "As a matter of fact, I think it is . . . I haven't really any doubts as to my capability. And I mean to make good for your sake!" The girl laughed softly, a laugh of pure happiness.

"We'll wait three months to make sure you don't get the sack. And then?" "And then I'll endow thee with my worldly goods that's the hang of it, isn't it?" "And as I say, we'll go to Egypt for our

honeymoon. Damn the expense! I've always wanted to go to Egypt all my life. The Nile and the pyramids and the sand..." He said, his voice slightly indistinct: "We'll see it together, Jackie... together. Won't it be marvelous?" "I wonder. Will it be as marvelous to you as it is to me? Do you really care as much as I do?" Her voice was suddenly sharp her eyes dilated almost with fear.

The man's answer came with an equal sharpness: "Don't be absurd, Jackie." But the girl repeated: "I wonder..." Then she shrugged her shoulders: "Let's dance." Hercule Poirot murmured to himself: "Un qui aime et un qui se laisse aimer. Yes, I wonder too."

Joanna Southwood said: "And suppose he's a terribly tough?"

Linnet shook her head. "Oh, he won't be. I can trust Jacqueline's taste."

Joanna murmured:

"Ah, but people don't run true to form in love affairs."

Linnet shook her head impatiently. Then she changed the subject. "I must go and see Mr. Pierce about those plans." "Plans?"

"Yes, some dreadful insanitary old cottages. I'm having them pulled down and the people moved."

"How sanitary and public-spirited of you, darling."

"They'd have had to go anyway. Those cottages would have overlooked my new swimming pool."

"Do the people who live in them like going?"

"Most of them are delighted. One or two are being rather stupid about it, really tiresome, in fact. They don't seem to realize how vastly improved their living conditions will be!"

"But you're being quite high-handed about it, I presume." "My dear Joanna, it's to their advantage really."

"Yes, dear, I'm sure it is. Compulsory benefit." Linnet frowned. Joanna laughed.

"Come now, you are a tyrant, admit it. A beneficent tyrant if you like!" "I'm not the least bit a tyrant." "But you like your own way!" "Not especially."

"Linnet Ridgeway, you can look me in the face and tell me of anyone occasion on which you've failed to do exactly as you wanted?"

"Heaps of times."

"Oh, yes, 'heaps of times' just like that but no concrete example. And you simply can't think up one, darling, however hard you try! The triumphal progress of Linnet Ridgeway in her golden car." Linnet said sharply: "You think I'm selfish?"

"No, just irresistible. The combined effect of money and charm. Everything goes down before you what you can't buy with cash you buy with a smile. Result:

Linnet Ridgeway, the Girl Who Has Everything." "Don't be ridiculous, Joanna?

"Well, haven't you got anything?"

"I suppose I have .... It sounds rather disgusting somehow!"

"Of course it's disgusting, darling! You'll probably get terribly bored and blas by and by. In the meantime enjoy the triumphal progress in the golden car. Only I wonder, I really do wonder, what will happen when you want to go down a street which has a board up saying No Thoroughfare."

"Don't be idiotic, Joanna." As Lord Windlesham joined them Linnet said, turning to him. "Joanna is saying the nastiest things to me."

"All spite," said Joanna vaguely as she got up from her seat.

She made no apology for leaving them. She had caught the glint in Windlesham's eye.

He was silent for a minute or two. Then he went straight to the point.

"Have you come to a decision, Linnet?"

Linnet said slowly: "Am I being a brute? I suppose, if I'm not sure, I ought to say No!" He interrupted her.

"Don't say it. You shall have time, as much time as you want. But I think, you know, we should be

happy together." "You see," Linnet's tone was apologetic, almost childish, "I'm enjoying myself so

much especially with all this." She waved a hand. "I wanted to make Wode Hall into my real ideal of a country house and I do think I've got it nice, don't you?" "It's beautiful. Beautifully planned. Everything perfect. You're very clever, Linnet." He paused a minute and went on: "And you like Charltonbury, don't you? Of course, it wants modernizing and all that, but you're so clever at that sort of thing. You'd enjoy it." "Why, of course, Charltonbury's divine."

She spoke with a ready enthusiasm, but inwardly she was conscious of a sudden chill. An alien note had sounded, disturbing her complete satisfaction with life.

She did not analyze the feeling at the moment, but later, when Windlesham had gone into the house, she tried to probe into the recesses of her mind. Charltonbury, yes, that was it, she had resented the mention of Charlton-bury. But why? Charltonbury was modestly famous. Windlesham's ancestors had held it since the time of Elizabeth. To be mistress of Charltonbury was a position unsurpassed in society. Windlesham was one of the most desirable partis in England.

Naturally, he wouldn't take Wode seriously. It was not in any way to be compared with Charltonbury.

Ah, but Wode was hers! She had seen it, acquired it, rebuilt and redressed it, lavished money on it. It was her own possession, her kingdom.

But in a sense, it wouldn't count if she married Windlesham. What would they want with two country places? And of the two naturally, Wode Hall would be the one to be given up.

She, Linnet Ridgeway, wouldn't exist any longer. She would be Countess of Windlesham, bringing a fine dowry to Charltonbury and its master. She would be queen consort, not queen any longer.

"I'm being ridiculous," said Linnet to herself.

But it was curious how she did hate the idea of abandoning Wode .

And wasn't there something else nagging at her?

Jackie's voice with that queer blurred note in it saying, "If I don't marry him I'll die.

I shall die. I shall die .... ' So positive, so earnest. Did she, Linnet, feel like that about Windlesham?

Assuredly she didn't.

Perhaps she could never feel like that about anyone. It must be rather wonderful to feel like that.

The sound of a car came through the open window.

Linnet shook herself impatiently. That must be Jackie and her young man. She'd go out and meet them.

She was standing in the open doorway as Jacqueline and Simon Doyle got out of the car.

"Linnet," Jackie ran to her. "This is Simon. Simon, here's Linnet. She's just the most wonderful person in the world."

Linnet saw a tall broad-shouldered young man with very dark blue eyes, crisply curling brown hair, a square chin, and a boyish appealing simple smile . . .

She stretched out a hand. The hand that clasped hers was firm and warm ....

She liked the way he looked at her, the naive genuine admiration.

Jackie had told him she was wonderful and he clearly thought that she was wonderful ....

A warm sweet feeling of intoxication ran through her veins.

"Isn't this all lovely?" she said. "Come in, Simon, and let me welcome my new land agent properly."

And as she turned to lead the way she thought: "I'm frightfully, frightfully happy. I like Jackie's young man I like him enormously .... " And then with a sudden pang: "Lucky Jackie .... "

Tim Allerton leaned back in his wicker chair and yawned as he looked out over the sea. He shot a quick a sidelong glance at his mother.

Mrs.Allerton was a good-looking white-haired woman of fifty. By imparting an expression of pinched severità to her mouth every time she looked at her son, she sought to disguise the fact of her intense affection for him. Even total strangers were seldom deceived by this device and Tim himself saw through it perfectly.

He said: "Do you really like Majorca, Mother?" "Well," Mrs. Allerton considered. "It's cheap." "And

cold," said Tim with a slight shiver.

He was a tall, thin young man with dark hair and a rather narrow chest. His mouth had a very sweet expression, his eyes were sad and his chin was indecisive. He had long delicate hands.

Threatened by consumption some years ago, he had never displayed a really robust physique. He was popularly supposed "to write," but it was understood among his friends that inquiries as to literary output were not encouraged. "What are you thinking of, Tim?" Mrs. Allerton was alert. Her bright dark brown eyes looked suspicious. Tim Allerton grinned at her. "I was thinking of Egypt." "Egypt?" Mrs. Allerton sounded doubtful.

"Real warmth, darling. Lazy golden sands. The Nile. I'd like to go up the Nile, wouldn't you?" "Oh, I'd like it." Her tone was dry. "But Egypt's expensive, my dear.

Not for those who have to count the pennies." Tim laughed. He rose, stretched himself. Suddenly he looked alive and eager. There was an exciting note in his voice.

"The expense will be my affair. Yes, darling. A little flutter on the Stock Exchange. With thoroughly

satisfactory results. I heard this morning."

"This morning?" said Mrs. Allerton sharply. "You only had one letter and that?" She stopped and bit her lip.

Tim looked momentarily undecided whether to be amused or annoyed.

Amusement gained the day.

"And that was from Joanna," he finished coolly. "Quite right, Mother. What a queen of detectives you'd make! The famous Hercule Poirot would have to look to his laurels if you were about." Mrs. Allerton looked rather cross.

"I just happened to see the handwriting" "And knew it wasn't that of a stockbroker? Quite right. As a matter of fact, it was yesterday I heard from them. Poor Joanna's handwriting's rather noticeable sprawls about all over the envelope like an inebriated spider." "What does Joanna say? Any news?" Mrs. Allerton strove to make her voice sound casual and ordinary. The friendship between her son and his second cousin, Joanna Southwood, always irritated her. Not, as she put it to herself, that there was "anything in it." She was quite sure there wasn't. Tim had never manifested a sentimental interest in Joanna, nor she in him. Their mutual attraction seemed to be founded on gossip and the possession of a large number of friends and acquaintances in common.

They both liked people and discussing people. Joanna had an amusing if caustic tongue.

It was not because Mrs. Allerton feared that Tim might fall in love with Joanna that she found herself alway becoming a little stiff in manner if Joanna were present or when letters from her arrived.

It was some other feeling hard to define perhaps unacknowledged jealousy in the unfeigned pleasure Tim always seemed to take in Joanna's society.

He and his mother were such perfect companions that the sight of him absorbed and interested in another woman always startled Mrs. Allerton slightly. She fancied, too, that her own presence on these occasions set some barrier between the two members of the younger generation. Often she had come upon them eagerly absorbed in some conversation, and at sight of her their talk had wavered, had seemed to include her rather too purposefully and as in duty bound. Quite definitely, Mrs. Allerton did not like Joanna Southwood. She thought her insincere, affected and essentially superficial. She found it very hard to prevent herself from saying so in unmeasured tones.

In answer to her question, Tim pulled the letter out of his pocket and glanced through it. It was quite a long letter, his mother noted.

"Nothing much," he said. "The Devenishes are getting a divorce. Old Monty's been had up for being drunk in charge of a car. Windlesham's gone to Canada.

Seems he was pretty badly hit when Linnet Ridgeway turned him down. She's definitely going to marry this land agent person." "How extraordinary! Is he very dreadful?" "No, no, not at all. He's one of the Devonshire Doyles. No money, of course, and he was actually engaged to one of Linnet's best friends.

Pretty thick, that." "I don't think it's at all nice," said Mrs. Allerton flushing Tim flashed her a quick affectionate glance.

"I know, darling. You don't approve of snaffling other people's husbands and all that sort of thing." "In my day we had our standards," said Mrs. Allerton. "And a very good thing too! Nowadays young people seem to think they can just go about doing anything they choose."

Tim smiled.

"They don't only think about it. They do it. Vide Linnet Ridgeway!" "Well, I think it's horrid!" Tim twinkled at her.

"Cheer up, you old die-hard! Perhaps I agree with you. Anyway, I haven't helped myself to any one's wife or fiancee yet."

"I'm sure you'd never do such a thing," said Mrs. Allerton. She added with spirit, "I've brought you up properly."

"So the credit is yours, not mine."

He smiled teasingly at her as he folded the letter and put it away again. Mrs. Allerton let the thought just flash across her mind:

"Most letters he shows to me. He only reads me snippets from Joanna's."

But she put the unworthy thought away from her, and decided, as ever, to behave like a gentlewoman.

"Is Joanna enjoying life?" she asked.

"So so. Says she thinks of opening a delicatessen shop in Mayfair."

"She always talks about being hard up," said Mrs. Allerton with a tinge of spice. "But she goes about everywhere and her clothes must cost her a lot. She's always beautifully dressed."

"Ah, well," said Tim. "She probably doesn't pay for them. No, Mother, I don't mean what your

Edwardian mind suggests to you. I just mean quite literally that she leaves her bills unpaid."

Mrs. Allerton sighed.

"I never know how people manage to do that."

"It's a kind of special gift," said Tim. "If only you have sufficiently extravagant tastes and absolutely no sense of money values, people will give you any amount of credit."

"Yes, but you come to the Bankruptcy Court in the end like poor Sir George Wode."

"You have a soft spot for that old horse coper--probably because he called you a rosebud in 1879 at a dance."

"I wasn't born in 1879," Mrs. Allerton retorted with spirit. "Sir George has charming manners and I won't have you calling him a horse coper." "I've heard funny stories about him from people that know."

"You and Joanna don't mind what you say about people anything will do so long as it's sufficiently

ill-natured."

Tim raised his eyebrows.

"My dear, you're quite heated. I didn't know old Wode was such a favorite of yours.

"You don't realize how hard it is for him-having to sell Wode Hall. He cared terribly about that place."

Tim suppressed the easy retort. After all, who was he to judge? Instead, he said thoughtfully:

"You know, I think you're not far wrong there. Linnet asked him to come down and see what she'd done to the place and he refused quite rudely."

"Of course. She ought to have known better than to ask him."

"And I believe he's quite venomous about her mutters things under his breath whenever he sees her.

Can't forgive her for having to give him an absolutely top price for the worm-eaten family estate." "And you can't understand that?" Mrs. Allerton spoke sharply.

"Frankly," said Tim calmly, "I can't. Why live in the past? Why cling on to things that have been?"

"What are you going to put in their place?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Excitement, perhaps. Novelty. The joy of never knowing what may turn up from day today. Instead of inheriting a useless tract of land, the pleasure of making money for yourself by your own brains and skill."

"A successful deal on the Stock Exchange in fact!"

He laughed:

"Why not?"

"And what about an equal loss on the Stock Exchange?"

"That, dear, is rather tactless. And a quite inappropriate to-day, what about this Egypt plan?" "Well!"

He cut in, smiling at her.

"That's settled. We've both always wanted to see Egypt." "When do you suggest?" "Oh, next month. January's about the best time there. We'll enjoy the delightful society in this hotel a few weeks longer."

"Tim!" said Mrs. Allerton reproachfully. Then she added guiltily. "I'm afraid I promised Mrs. Leech that you'd go with her to the police station. She doesn't understand any Spanish." Tim made a grimace.

"About her ring? The blood-red ruby of the horseleech's daughter? Does she still persist in thinking it's been stolen? I'll go if you like, but it's a waste of time. She'll only get some wretched chambermaid into trouble. I distinctly saw it on her finger when she went into the sea that day. It came off in the water and she never noticed."

"She says she is quite sure she took it off and left it on her dressing-table." "Well, she didn't. I saw it with my own eyes. The woman's a fool. Any woman's a fool who goes prancing into the sea in December pretending the water's quite warm just because the sun happens to be shining rather brightly at the moment. Stout women oughtn't to be allowed to bathe anyway. They look so revolting in bathing dresses." Mrs. Allerton murmured: "I really feel I ought to give up bathing." Tim gave a shout of laughter.

"You? You can give most of the young things points and to spare." Mrs. Allerton sighed and said: "I wish there were a few more young people for you here." Tim Allerton shook his head decidedly.

"I don't. You and I get along rather comfortably without outside distractions." "You'd like it if Joanna were here." "I wouldn't."His tone was unexpectedly resolute. "You're all wrong there.

Joanna amuses me, but I don't really like her, and to have her around much gets on my nerves. I'm thankful she isn't here. I should be quite resigned if I were never to see Joanna again." He added, almost below his breath: "There's only one woman in the world I've got real respect and admiration for.

And I think, Mrs. Allerton, you know very well who that woman is."

His mother blushed and looked quite confused.

Tim said gravely:

"There aren't very many really nice women in the world. You happen to be one of them." In an

apartment overlooking Central Park in New York, Mrs. Robson exclaimed:

"If that isn't just too lovely! You really are the luckiest girl, Cornelia." Cornelia Robson flushed

responsively.

She was a big clumsy-looking girl with brown dog-like eyes.

"Oh, it will be wonderful," she gasped.

Old Miss Van Schuyler inclined her head in a satisfied fashion at this correct attitude on the part of poor relations.

"I've always dreamed of a trip to Europe," sighed Cornelia. "But I just didn't feel I'd ever get there."

"Miss Bowers will come with me as usual, of course," said Miss Van Schuyler.

"But as a social companion, I find her limited, very limited. There are many little things that Cornelia can do for me."

"I'd just love to, Cousin Marie," said Cornelia eagerly.

"Well, well, then that's settled," said Miss Van Schuyler. "Just run and find

Miss Bowers, my dear. It's time for my egg nog." Cornelia departed.

Her mother said:

"My dear Marie, I'm really most grateful to you! You know I think Cornelia suffers a lot from not being a social success. It makes her feel kind of mortified. If I could afford to take her to places but you know how it's been since Ned died."

"I'm very glad to take her," said Miss Van Schuyler. "Cornelia has always been a nice handy girl, willing to run errands, and not so selfish as some of this young people nowadays."

Mrs. Robson rose and kissed her rich relative's wrinkled and slightly yellow face.

"I'm just ever so grateful," she declared.

On the stairs, she met a tall capable looking woman who was carrying a glass containing a yellow foamy liquid.

"Well, Miss Bowers, so you're off to Europe?" "Why yes, Mrs. Robson?" "What a lovely trip!"

"Why, yes, I should think it would be very enjoyable."

"But you've been abroad before?"

"Oh yes, Mrs. Robson. I went over to Pis with Miss Van Schuyler last fall.

But I've never been to Egypt before."

Mrs. Robson hesitated.

"I do hope there won't be any trouble."

She had lowered her voice.

Miss Bowers, however, replied in her usual tone.

"Oh, no, Mrs. Robson, I shall take good care of that. I keep a very sharp lookout always."

But there was still a faint shadow on Mrs. continued down the stairs.

Robson's face as she slowly.

In his office downtown Mr. Andrew Pennington was opening his personal mail.

Suddenly his fist clenched itself and came down on his desk with a bang, his face crimsoned and two big veins stood out on his forehead.

He pressed a buzzer on his desk and a smart-looking stenographer appeared with commendable

promptitude.

"Tell Mr. Rockford to step in here." "Yes, Mr. Pennington." A few minutes later, Sterndale Rockford,

Pennington's partner entered the office. The two men were not unlike, both tall, spare with grey hair and clean-shaven clever faces.

"What's up, Pennington?" Pennington looked up from the letter he was rereading.

He said: "Linnet's married " "What?" "You heard what I said! Linnet Ridgeway's married!"

"How? When? Why didn't we hear about it?"

Pennington glanced at the calendar on his desk.

"She wasn't married when she wrote this letter, but she's married now.

Morning of the 4th. That's today." Rockford dropped into a chair.

"Whew! No warning? Nothing? Who's the man?"

Pennington referred again to the letter.

"Doyle. Simon Doyle." "What sort of a fellow is he? Ever heard of him?" "No. She doesn't say much ....

"He scanned the lines of clear upright handwriting. "Got an idea there's something hole and corner about

the business That doesn't matter. The whole point is, she's married." The eyes of the two men met.

Rockford nodded.

"This needs a bit of thinking out," he said quietly.

"What are we going to do about it?" "I'm asking you." The two men sat silent.

Then Rockford said: "Got any plan?" Pennington said slowly: "The Normandie sails to-day. One of us could just make it." "You're crazy! What's the big idea?" Pennington said: "Those British lawyers..." and stopped.

"What about 'em? Surely you're not going over to tackle 'em? You're mad!" "I'm not suggesting you or I should go to England." "What's the big idea, then?" Pennington smoothed out the letter on the table.

"Linnet's going to Egypt for her honeymoon. Expects to be there a month or more ....

"Egypt, eh ?"

Rockford considered. Then he looked up and met the other's glance.

"Egypt," he said, "that's your idea!"

"Yes, a chance meeting. Over on a trip. Linnet and her husband honeymoon atmosphere. It might be done."

Roelfford said doubtfully:

"She's sharp, Linnet is... But..."

Pennington said softly:

"I think there might be ways of managing it." Again their eyes met.

Rockford nodded.

"All right, big boy." Pennington looked at the clock.

"We'll have to hustle whichever of us is going."

"You go," said Rockford promptly. "You always made a hit with Linnet. Uncle Andrew. That's the

ticket!"

Pennington's face had hardened.

He said:

"I hope I can pull it off.'

His partner said:

"You've got to pull it off. The situation's critical .... " William Carmichael said to the thin weedy youth who opened the door inquiringly:

"Send Mr. Jim to me, please."

Jim Fanthorp entered the room and looked inquiringly at his uncle. The older man looked up with a nod and a grunt.

"Humph, there you are." "You asked for me?"

"Just cast an eye over this."

The young man sat down and drew the sheaf of papers towards him. The elder man watched him.

"Well?"

The answer came promptly.

"Looks fishy to me, sir."

Again the senior partner of Carmichael, Grant & Carmichael uttered his characteristic grunt.

Jim Fanthorp re-read the letter which had just arrived by Air Mail from Egypt.

"... It seems wicked to be writing business letters on such a day. We have spent a week at Mena House and made an expedition to the Fayum. The day after tomorrow we are going up the Nile to Luxor and Assuan by the starter, and perhaps on to Khartoum. When we went into Cook's this morning to see about our tickets who do you think was the first person I saw my American trustee Andrew Pennington. I think you met him two years ago when he was over. I had no idea he was in Egypt and he had no idea that I was! Nor that I was married! My letter, telling him of my marriage, must have just missed him. He is actually going up the Nile on the same trip that we are. Isn't it a coincidence? Thank you so much for all you have done in this busy time. I . . ."

As the young man was about to turn the page, Mr. Carmichael took the letter from him.

"That's all," he said. "The rest doesn't matter. Well, what do you think?" His nephew considered for a moment then he said: "Well! I think not a coincidence..." The other nodded approval.

"Like a trip to Egypt?" he barked out.

"You think that's advisable?" "I think there's no time to lose." "But why me?" "Use your brains, boy, use your brains. Linnet Ridgeway has never met you, no more has Pennington. If you go by air you may get there in time." "I don't like it, sir. What am I to do?" "Use your eyes. Use your ears. Use your brains, if you've got any. And, if the necessary act." "I don't like it." "Perhaps not, but you've got to do it.' "It's necessary?" "In my opinion," said Mr. Carmichael, "it's absolutely vital."

Mrs. Otterbourne, readjusting the turban of native material that she wore draped around her head, said fretfully: "I really don't see why we shouldn't go on to Egypt. I'm sick and tired of Jerusalem" As her daughter made no reply, she said: "You might at least answer when you're spoken to." Rosalie Otterbourne was looking at a newspaper reproduction of a face. Below it was written:

"Mrs. Simon Doyle, who before her marriage was the well-known society beauty, Miss Linnet

Ridgeway. Mr. and Mrs. Doyle are spending their honeymoon in Egypt."

Rosalie said: "You'd like to move on to Egypt, Mother?" "Yes, I would," Mrs. Otterbourne snapped. "I consider they've treated us in a most cavalier fashion here. My being here is an advertisement, I ought to get a special reduction in terms. When I hinted as much I consider they were most impertinent, most impertinent. I told them exactly what I thought of them." The girl sighed. She said: "One place is very like another. I wish we could get right away."

"And this morning," went on Mrs. Otterbourne, "the manager actually had the impertinence to tell me that all the rooms had been booked in advance and that he would require ours in two days' time."

"So we've got to go somewhere."

"Not at all. I'm quite prepared to fight for my rights."

Rosalie murmured: "I suppose we might as well go on to Egypt. It doesn't make any difference."

"It's certainly not a matter of life or death," said Mrs. Otterbourne.

But there she was quite wrong for a matter of life and death was exactly what it was.

EGYPT

''That's Hercule Poirot, the detective," said Mrs. Allerton.

She and her son were sitting in brightly painted scarlet basket chairs outside the Cataract Hotel at

Assuan.

They were watching the retreating figures of two people a short man dressed in a white silk suit and a tall slim girl.

Tim Allerton sat up in an unusually alert fashion.

"That funny little man?" he asked incredulously.

"That funny little man!"

Tim said: "What on the earth's he doing out here?"

His mother laughed.

"Darling, you sound quite excited. Why do men enjoy crime so much? I hate detective stories and never read them. But I don't think M. Poirot is here with any ulterior motive. He's made a good deal of money and he's seeing life, I fancy." "Seems to have an eye for the best-looking girl in the place.'

Mrs. Allerton tilted her head a little on one side as she considered the retreating backs of M. Poirot and his companion.

The girl by his side overtopped him by some three inches. She walked well, neither stiffly nor slouchingly.

"I suppose she is quite good-looking?" said Mrs. Allerton.

She shot a little glance sideways at Tim. Somewhat to her amusement, the fish rose at once.

"She's more than quite. Pity she looks so bad-tempered and sulky."

"Perhaps that's just expression, dear."

"Unpleasant young devil, I think. But she's pretty enough."

The subject of these remarks was walking slowly by Poirot's side. Rosalie Otterbourne was twirling an unopened parasol, and her expression certainly bore out what Tim had just said. She looked both sulky and bad-tempered. Her eyebrows were drawn together in a frown and the scarlet line of her mouth was drawn downwards.

They turned to the left out of the hotel gate and entered the cool shade of the public gardens.

Hercule Poirot was prattling gently, his expression that of beatific good humour. He wore a white silk suit, carefully pressed, a Panama hat and carried a highly ornamental fly whisk with a sham amber handle.

" it enchants me," he was saying. "The black rocks of Elephantine, and the sun, the little boats on the river. Yes, it is good to be alive."

He paused and then added:

"You do not find it so, Mademoiselle?"

Rosalie Otterbourne said shortly:

"It's all right, I suppose. I think Assuan's a gloomy sort of place. The hotel's half empty, and everyone's about a hundred"

She stopped, biting her lip.

Hercule Poirot's eyes twinkled.

"It is true, yes, I have one leg in the grave."

"I wasn't thinking of you," said the girl. "I'm sorry. That sounded rude."

"Not at all. It is natural you should wish for young companions of your own age. Ah, well, there is one young man, at least."

"The one who sits with his mother all the time? I like her but I think he looks dreadful so conceited!"

Poirot smiled.

"And I am I conceited?"

"Oh, I don't think so."

She was obviously uninterested but the fact did not seem to annoy Poirot.

He merely remarked with placid satisfaction:

"My best friend says that I am very conceited."

"Oh, well," said Rosalie vaguely, "I suppose you have something to be conceited about. Unfortunately, crime doesn't interest me in the least."

Poirot said solemnly:

"I am delighted to learn that you have no guilty secret to hide."

Just for a moment, the sulky mask of her face was transformed as she shot him a swift questioning glance.

Poirot did not seem to notice it as he went on.

"Madame, your mother was not at lunch today. She is not indisposed, I trust?"

"This place doesn't suit her," said Rosalie briefly. "I shall be glad when we leave."

"We are fellow-passengers, are we not? We both make the excursion up to Wadi Halfa and the Second Cataract?"

"Yes."

They came out from the shade of the garden on to a dusty stretch of road bordered by the river. Five watchful bead sellers, two vendors of postcards, three sellers of plaster scarabs, a couple of donkey boys and some detached but hopeful infantile riff-raft closed in upon them.

"You want beads, sir? Very good, sir. Very cheap "

"Lady, you want scarab. Look great queen very lucky ."

"You look, sir real lapis. Very good, very cheap.

"You want to ride donkey, sir? This very good donkey. This donkey Whisky and Soda, sir .... ' "You want to go granite' quarries, sir? This very good donkey. Other donkeys very bad, sir, that donkey fall down ...." "You want a postcard very cheap, very nice .... "

"Look, lady .... Only ten piastres very cheap lapis, this ivory .... "

"This very good fly whisk this all amber .... "

"You go out in the boat, sir? I got a very good boat, sir "

"You ride back to the hotel, lady? This first-class donkey " Hercule Poirot made vague gestures to rid himself of this human cluster of flies. Rosalie stalked through them like a sleepwalker.

"It's best to pretend to be deaf and blind," she remarked.

The infantile riff-raft ran alongside murmuring plaintively.

"Bakshish? Bakshish? Hip, hip, hurrah! Very good, very nice .... " Their gaily colored rags trailed

picturesquely and the flies lay in clusters on their eyelids.

They were the most persistent. The others fell back and launched a fresh attack on the next corner. Now Poirot and Rosalie only ran the gauntlet of the shop's suave persuasive accents here.

"You visit my shop today, sir?" "You want that ivory crocodile, sir?" "You not been in my shop yet, sir? I show you very beautiful things." They turned into the fifth shop and Rosalie handed over several rolls of films, the object of the walk.

Then they came out again and walked towards the river's edge.

One of the Nile steamers was just mooring. Poirot and Rosalie looked interestedly at the passengers.

"Quite a lot, aren't there?" commented Rosalie.

She turned her head as Tim Allerton came up and joined them. He was a little out of breath as though he had been walking fast.

They stood there for a moment or two and then Tim spoke: "An awful crowd, as usual, I suppose," he remarked disparagingly, indicating the disembarking passengers.

"They're usually quite terrible," agreed Rosalie.

All three wore the air of superiority assumed by people who are already in a place when studying new arrivals.

"Hallo!" said Tim, his voice suddenly excited. "I'm damned if that isn't Linnet Ridgeway." If the

information left Poirot unmoved, it stirred Rosalie's interest. She leaned forward and her sulkiness quite dropped from her as she asked: "Where? That one is white?" "Yes, there with the tall man. They're coming ashore now. He's the new husband, I suppose. Can't remember her name now" "Doyle," said Rosalie. "Simon Doyle. It was in all the newspapers. She's simply rolling, isn't she?" "Only about the richest girl in England," said Tim cheerfully.

The three lookers-on were silent watching the passengers come ashore. Poirot gazed with interest at the subject of the remarks of his companions. He murmured: "She is beautiful." "Some people have got everything," said Rosalie bitterly.

There was a queer grudging expression on her face as she watched the other girl come up the gangplank.

Linnet Doyle was looking as perfectly turned out as if she was stepping on the center of the stage in a Revue. She had something too of the assurance of a famous actress. She was used to being looked at, to being admired, to being the center of the stage wherever she went.

She was aware of the keen glances bent upon her--and at the same time almost unaware of them, such tributes were part of her life.

She came ashore playing an r61e, even though she played it unconsciously. The rich, beautiful society bride on her honeymoon. She turned with a little smile and a light remark to the tall man by her side. He answered and the sound of his voice seemed to interest Hercule Poirot. His eyes lit up and he drew his brows together.

The couple passed close to him. He heard Simon Doyle say: "We'll try and make time for it, darling. We can easily stay a week or two if you like it here." His face was turned towards her, eager, adoring, a little humble.

Poirot's eyes ran over him thoughtfully the square shoulders, the bronzed face, the dark blue eyes, the rather childlike simplicity of the smile.

"Lucky devil," said Tim after they had passed. "Fancy finding an heiress who hasn't got adenoids and flat feet!" "They look frightfully happy," said Rosalie with a note of envy in her voice.

She said suddenly but so low that Tim did not catch the words: "It isn't fair." Poirot heard, however. He had been frowning somewhat perplexedly but now he flashed a quick glance towards her.

' Tim said: "I must collect some stuff for my mother now." He raised his hat and moved off. Poirot and Rosalie retraced their steps slowly in the direction of the hotel, waving aside fresh proffers of donkeys.

"So it is not fair, Mademoiselle?" said Poirot gently.

The girl flushed angrily. "I don't know what you mean." ' "I am repeating what you said just now under your breath. Oh, yes, you did."

Rosalie Otterbourne shrugged her shoulders.

"It really seems a little too much for one person. Money, good looks, marvelous figure and..."

She paused and Poirot said:

"And love? Eh? And love? But you do not know she may have been married for her money!"

"Didn't you see the way he looked at her?"

"Oh, yes, Mademoiselle. I saw all there was to see indeed I saw something that you did not."

"What was that?"

Poirot said slowly:

"I saw Mademoiselle, dark lines below a woman's eyes. I saw a hand that clutched a sunshade so tight that the knuckles were white " Rosalie was staring at him.

"What do you mean?" "I mean that all is not the gold that glitters mean that though the lady is rich and beautiful and beloved, there is all the same something that is not right.

And I know something else." "Yes?" "I know," said Poirot frowning, "that somewhere, at some time, I have heard that voice before, the voice of M. Doyle and I wish I could remember where." But Rosalie was not listening. She had stopped dead. With the point of her sunshade, she was tracing patterns in the loose sand. Suddenly she broke out fiercely: "I'm odious. I'm quite odious. I'm just a beast through and through. I'd like to tear the clothes off her back and stamp on her lovely arrogant self-confident face. I'm just a jealous cat, but that's what I feel like. She's so horribly successful and poised and assured."

Hercule Poirot looked a little astonished by the outburst. He took her by the arm and gave her a friendly little shake.

"Tenez you will feel better for having said that!"

"I just hate her. I've never hated anyone so much at first sight." "Magnificent."

Rosalie looked at him doubtfully. Then her mouth twitched and she laughed. "Bien,' said Poirot, and laughed too.

They proceeded amicably back to the hotel.

"I must find mother," said Rosalie, as they came into the cool dim hall.

Poirot passed out on the other side on to the terrace overlooking the Nile.

There were little tables set for tea, but it was early still. He stood for a few moments looking down on to the river then strolled down through the gardens.

Some people were playing tennis in the hot sun. He paused to watch them for a while, then went on down the steep path. It was there, sitting on a bench overlooking the Nile, that he came upon the girl of Chez Ma Tante. He recognized her at once. Her face, as he had seen it that night, was securely etched upon his memory. The expression on it now was very different. She was paler, thinner, and there were lines that told of great weariness and misery of spirit.

He drew back a little. She had not seen him, and he watched her for a while without her suspecting his presence. Her small foot tapped impatiently on the ground. Her eyes, dark with a kind of smoldering fire, had a queer kind of suffering dark triumph in them. She was looking out across the Nile where the white-sailed boats glided up and down the river.

A face and a voice. He remembered them both. This girl's face and the voice he had heard just now, the voice of a newly made bridegroom ....

And even as he stood there considering the unconscious girl, the next scene in the drama was played.

Voices sounded above. The girl on the seat started to her feet. Linnet Doyle and her husband came down the path. Linnet's voice was happy and confident. The look of strain and tenseness of muscle had quite disappeared. Linnet was happy.

The girl who was standing there took a step or two forward.

The other two stopped dead.

"Hallo, Linnet," said Jacqueline de Bellefort. "So here you are! We never seem to stop running into each other. Hallo, Simon, how are you?"

Linnet Doyle had shrunk back against the rock with a little cry. Simon Doyle's good-looking face was suddenly convulsed with rage. He moved forward as though he would have liked to strike the slim girlish figure.

With a quick birdlike turn of her head, she signaled her realization of a stranger's presence. Simon turned his head and noticed Poirot.

He said awkwardly:

"Hallo, Jacqueline, we didn't expect to see you here." The words were unconvincing in the extreme.

The girl flashed white teeth at them.

"Quite a surprise?" she asked.

Then, with a little nod, she walked up the path.

Poirot moved delicately in the opposite direction.

As he went he heard Linnet Doyle say:

"Simon for God's sake Simon what can we do?"

Dinner was over.

The terrace outside the Cataract Hotel was softly lit. Most of the guests staying at the hotel were there sitting at little tables.

Simon and Linnet Doyle came out, a tall distinguished-looking grey-haired man with a keen clean-shaven American face beside them.

As the little group hesitated for a moment in the doorway, Tim Allerton rose from his chair nearby and came forward.

"You don't remember me, I'm sure,'' he said pleasantly to Linnet. "But I'm Joanna Southwood's cousin."

"Of course, how stupid of me. You're Tim Allerton. This is my husband" a faint tremor in the voice

pride shyness? "and this is my American trustee, Mr. Pennington."

Tim said:

"You must meet my mother."

A few minutes later they were sitting together at a party. Linnet in the corner, Tim and Pennington each side of her, both talking to her, vying for her attention.

Mrs. Allerton talked to Simon Doyle.

The swing doors revolved. A sudden tension came into the beautiful upright figure sitting in the corner between the two men. Then it relaxed as a small man came out and walked across the terrace.

Mrs. Allerton said:

"You're not the only celebrity here, my dear. That funny little man is Hercule Poirot."

She had spoken lightly, just out of instinctive social tact to bridge an awkward pause, but Linnet seemed struck by the information.

"Hercule Poirot? Of course, I've heard of him .... "

She seemed to sink into a fit of abstraction. The two men on either side of her were momentarily at a loss.

Poirot had strolled across to the edge of the terrace, but his attention was immediately solicited.

"Sit down, M. Poirot. What a lovely night."

He obeyed.

"Mais oui, Madame, it is indeed beautiful."

He smiled politely at Mrs. Otterbourne. What draperies of black ninon and that ridiculous turban effect!

Mrs. Otterbourne went on in her high complaining voice.

"Quite a lot of notabilities here now, aren't there? I expect we shall see a paragraph about it in the papers soon. Society beauties, famous novelists." She paused with a slight mock-modest laugh.

Poirot felt, rather than saw, the sulky frowning girl opposite him flinch and set her mouth in a sulkier line than before.

"You have a novel on the way at present, Madame?" he inquired.

Mrs. Otterbourne gave her a little self-conscious laugh again.

"I'm being dreadfully lazy. I really must set to. My public is getting terribly impatient and my

publisher, poor man! Appeals by every post! Even cables!" Again he felt the girl shift in the darkness.

"I don't mind telling you, M. Poirot, I am partly here for local color. Snow On The Desert's Face, that is the title of my new book. Powerful! Suggestive. Snow on the desert melted in the first flaming breath of passion."

Rosalie got up, muttering something, and moved away down into the dark garden.

"One must be strong," went on Mrs. Otterbourne, wagging the turban emphatically. "Strong meat--that is what my books are. Libraries may ban them, no matter! I speak the truth. Sex ah! M. Poirot, why is everyone so afraid of sex? The pivot of the universe! You have read my books?"

"Alas, Madame! You comprehend I do not read many novels. My work." Mrs. Otterbourne said

firmly:

"I must give you a copy of Under The Fig Tree. I think you will find it significant. It is outspoken but it is real."

"That is most kind of you, Madame. I will read it with pleasure."

Mrs. Otterbourne was silent a minute or two. She fidgeted with a long chain of beads that was wound twice around her neck.

She looked swiftly from side to side.

"Perhaps! I'll just slip up and get it for you now." "Oh, Madame, pray do not trouble yourself. Later."

"No, no. It's no trouble." She rose. "I'd like to show you."

"What is it, Mother?"

Rosalie was suddenly at her side. "Nothing, dear. I was just going up to get a book for M. Poirot."

"Fig Tree? I'll get it."

"You don't know where it is, dear. I'll go."

"Yes, I do."

The girl went swiftly across the terrace and into the hotel.

"Let me congratulate you, Madame, on a very lovely daughter," said Poirot, with a bow.

"Rosalie? Yes, yes she is good-looking. But she's very hard, M. Poirot. And no sympathy with illness.

She always thinks she knows best. She imagines she knows more about my health than I do myself."

Poirot signaled to a passing waiter.

"A liqueur, Madame? A chartreuse? A crbme de menthe?"

Mrs. Otterbourne shook her head vigorously.

"No, no. I am practically a teetotaller. You may have noticed I never drink anything but water or

perhaps lemonade. I cannot bear the taste of spirits." "Then may I order you a lemon squash, Madame?"

He gave the order one lemon squash and one benedictine.

The swing door revolved. Rosalie passed through and came towards them, a book in her hand.

"Here you are," she said. Her voice was quiet expressionless almost remarkably so.

"M. Poirot has just ordered me a lemon squash," said her mother.

"And you, Mademoiselle, what will you take?"

"Nothing." She added, suddenly conscious of the curtness, "Nothing, thank you.

Poirot took the volume which Mis. Otterbourne held out to him. It still bore its original jacket, a gaily colored affair representing a lady with smartly shingled hair and scarlet fingernails sitting on a tiger skin in the traditional costume of Eve.

Above her was a tree with the leaves of an oak, bearing large and improbably colored apples.

It was entitled Under the Fig Tree by Salome Otterbourne. On the inside was a publisher's blurb. It spoke enthusiastically of the superb courage and realism of this study of a modern woman's love life.

Fearless, unconventional, realistic, were the adjectives used.

Poirot bowed and murmured:

"I am honored, Madame."

As he raised his head, his eyes met those of the authoress's daughter. Almost involuntarily he made a little movement. He was astonished and grieved at the eloquent pain they revealed.

It was at that moment that the drinks arrived and created a welcome diversion.

Poirot lifted his glass gallantly.

"A votre sant, Madame Mademoiselle."

Mrs. Otterbourne, sipping her lemonade murmured:

"So refreshing-delicious."

Silence fell on the three of them. They looked down at the shining black rocks in the Nile. There was something fantastic about them in the moonlight. They were like vast prehistoric monsters lying half out of the water. A little breeze came up suddenly and as suddenly died away.

There was a feeling in the air of hush of expectancy.

Hercule Poirot brought his gaze to the terrace and its occupants. Was he wrong, or was there the same hush of expectancy there? It was like a moment on the stage when one is waiting for the entrance of the leading lady.

And just at that moment, the swing doors began to revolve once more. This time it seemed as though they did so with a special air of importance. Everyone had stopped talking and was looking towards them.

A dark slender girl in a wine-colored evening frock came through. She paused for a minute, then walked deliberately across the terrace and sat down at an empty table. There was nothing flaunting, nothing out of the way about her demeanor and yet it had somehow the studied effect of a stage entrance.

"Well!" said Mrs. Otterbourne. She tossed her turbaned head. "She seems to think she is somebody, that girl?

Poirot did not answer. He was watching. The girl had sat down in a place where she could look

deliberately across at Linnet Doyle. Presently, Poirot noticed, Linnet Doyle leaned forward and said something and a moment later got up and changed her seat. She was now sitting facing in the opposite direction.

Poirot nodded thoughtfully to himself,

It was about five minutes later that the other girl changed her seat to the opposite side of the terrace. She sat smoking and smiling quietly, the picture of contented ease. But always, as though unconsciously, her meditative gaze was on Simon Doyle's wife.

After a quarter of an hour, Linnet Doyle got up abruptly and went into the hotel. Her husband followed her almost immediately. Jacqueline de Bellefort smiled and twisted her chair around. She lit a cigarette and stared out over the Nile. She went on smiling to herself.

"M. Poirot."

Poirot got hastily to his feet. He had remained sitting out on the terrace alone after everyone else had left.

Lost in meditation, he had been staring at the smooth shiny black rocks when the sound of his name recalled him to himself.

It was a well-bred assured voice, a charming voice, although, perhaps, a trifle arrogant.

Hercule Poirot, rising quickly, looked into the commanding eyes of Linnet Doyle.

She wore a wrap of rich purple velvet over her white satin gown and she looked more lovely and more regal than Poirot had imagined possible.

"You are M. Hercule Poirot?' said Linnet.

It was hardly a question. "At your service, Madame." "You know who I am, perhaps?"

"Yes, Madame. I have heard your name. I know exactly who you are."

Linnet nodded. That was only what she had expected. She went on in her charming autocratic manner.

"Will you come with me into the card-room, M. Poirot? I am very anxious to speak to you."

"Certainly, Madame."

She led the way into the hotel. He followed. She led him into the deserted card-room and motioned him to close the door. Then she sank down on a chair at one of the tables and he sat down opposite her.

She plunged straightaway into what she wanted to say. There were no hesitations. Her speech came flowingly.

"I have heard a great deal about you, M. Poirot, and I know that you are a very clever man. It happens that I am urgently in need of someone to help me and I think very possible that you are the man who could do it."

Poirot inclined his head.

"You are very amiable, Madame. But you see, I am on holiday, and when I am on holiday I do not take cases."

"That could be arranged."

It was not offensively said only with the quiet confidence of a young woman who had always been able to arrange matters to her satisfaction.

Linnet Doyle went on.

"I am the subject, M. Poirot, of intolerable persecution. That persecution has got to stop! My own idea was to go to the police about it, but my husband seems to think that the police would be powerless to do anything."

"Perhaps, if you would explain a little further?" murmured Poirot politely. "Oh yes, I will do so. The

the matter is perfectly simple."

There was still no hesitation, no faltering. Linnet Doyle had a clear-cut business-like mind. She only paused a minute so as to present the facts as concisely as possible.

"Before I met my husband, he was engaged a Miss de Bellefort. She was also a friend of mine. My

husband broke off his engagement to her they were not suited in any way. She, I am sorry to say, took it rather hard. I am very sorry about that but these things cannot be helped. She made certain well, threats to which I paid very little attention and which, I may say, she has not attempted to carry out.

But instead, she has adopted the extraordinary course of following us about wherever we go."

Poirot raised his eyebrows.

"Ah, rather an act of unusual revenge."

"Very unusual and very ridiculous! But also annoying."

She bit her lip.

Poirot nodded.

"Yes, I can imagine that. You are, I understand, on your honeymoon?"

"Yes. It happened the first time in Venice. She was thereat Daniellfs. I thought it was just a coincidence.

Rather embarrassing, but that was all. Then, we found her on board the boat at Brindisi. We understood that she was going on to Palestine. We left her, as we thought, on the boat. But when we got to Mena House she was there waiting for us."

Poirot nodded.

"And now!"

"We came up the Nile by boat. I was half expecting to find her on board.

When she wasn't there I thought she had stopped being so childish. But when we got here she

was here waiting."

Poirot eyed her keenly for a moment. She was still perfectly composed, but the knuckles of the.hand that was gripping the table were white with the force of her grip.

He said:

"And you are afraid this state of things may continue?"

"Yes." She paused. "Of course the whole thing is idiotic! Jacqueline is making herself utterly ridiculous. I am surprised she hasn't got more pride more dignity."

Poirot made a slight gesture.

"There are times, Madame, when pride and dignity they go by the board!

There are other stronger emotions."

"Yes, possibly," Linnet spoke impatiently. "But what on earth can she hope to gain by all this?"

"It is not always a question of gain, Madame."

Something in his tone struck Linnet disagreeably. She flushed and said quickly:

"You are right. A discussion of motives is beside the point. The crux of the matter is that this has got to be stopped."

"And how do you propose that that should be accomplished, Madame?" Poirot asked.

"Well, naturally, my husband and I cannot continue being subjected to this annoyance. There must be some kind of legal redress against such a thing."

She spoke impatiently. Poirot looked at her thoughtfully as he asked:

"Has she threatened you in actual words in public? Used insulting language?

Attempted any bodily harm?" "Then, frankly, Madame, I do not see what you can do. If it is a young lady's pleasure to travel in certain places and those places are the same where you and your husband find yourselves-eh bien, what of it? The air is free to all! There is no question of her forcing herself upon your privacy? It is always in public that these encounters take place?" "You mean there is nothing that I can do about it?" Linnet sounded incredulous.

Poirot said placidly: "Nothing at all as far as I can see. Mademoiselle de Bellefort is within her rights."

"But but it is maddening! It is intolerable that I should have to put up with this!" Poirot said dryly: "I sympathize with you, Madame especially as I imagine that you have not often had to put up with things."

Linnet was frowning.

"There must be some way of stopping it," she murmured.

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"You can always leave move on somewhere else," he suggested.

"Then she will follow!" "Very possibly, yes." "It's absurd!" "Precisely.' "Anyway, why should we run

away? As though as though..." She stopped.

"Exactly, Madame. As though! It is all there, is it not?" Linnet lifted her head and stared at him.

"What do you mean?" Poirot altered his tone. He leaned forward, his voice was confidential, appealing. He said very gently: "Why do you mind so much, Madame?" "Why? But it's maddening! Irritating to the last degree! I've told you why!" Poirot shook his head.

"Not altogether." Linnet said again: "What do you mean?" Poirot leaned back, folded his arms and spoke in a detached impersonal manner. "Ecoutez, Madame, I will recount to you a little history. It is that one day a month or two ago I am dining in a restaurant in London. At the table next to me are two people, a man, and a girl. They are very happy, so it seems, very much in love. They talk with the confidence of the future. It is not that I listen to what is not meant for me they are quite

oblivious of who hears them and who does not. The man's back is to me, but I can watch the girl's face.

It is very intense. She is in a love heart, soul and body, and she is not of those who love lightly and often.

With her, it is clearly the life and death. They are engaged to be married, these two, that is what I gather, and they talk of where they shall pass the days of their honeymoon.

They plan to go to Egypt." He paused. Linnet said sharply.

"Well?" Poirot went on.

"That is a month or two ago, but the girl's face I do not forget it. I know that I shall remember if I see it again. And I remember too the man's voice. And I think you can guess, Madame, when it is I see the one and hear the other again. It is here in Egypt. The man is on his honeymoon yes but he is on his honeymoon with another woman."

Linnet said sharply:

"What of it? I had already mentioned the facts." "The facts, yes." "Well then?" Poirot said slowly:

"The girl in the restaurant mentioned a friend whom she was very positive would not let her

down. That friend, I think, were you, Madame." Linnet flushed.

"Yes. I told you we had been friends." "And she trusted you?" "Yes."

She hesitated for a moment, biting her lip impatiently, then as Poirot did not seem disposed to speak she broke out.

"Of course, the whole thing was very unfortunate. But these things happen, M. Poirot."

"Ah! yes, they happen, Madame." He paused. "You are of the Church of England, I presume?"

"Yes." Linnet looked slightly bewildered.

"Then you have heard portions of the Bible read aloud in church. You have heard of King David and of the rich man who had many flocks and herds and the poor man who had one ewe lamb and of how the rich man took the poor man's one ewe lamb. That was something that happened, Madame." Linnet sat up. Her eyes flashed angrily.

"I see perfectly what you are driving at, M. Poirot! You think, to put it vulgarly, that I stole my friend's young man, Looking at the matter sentimentally which is, I suppose, the way people of your generation cannot help looking at things that are possibly true. But the real hard truth is different. I don't deny that Jackie was passionately in love with Simon, but I don't think you take into account that he may not have been equally devoted to her. He was very fond of her, but I think that even before he met me he was beginning to feel that he had made a mistake. Look at it clearly, M. Poirot. Simon discovers that it is what he loves, not Jackie. What is he to do? Be heroically noble and marry a woman he does not care for and

thereby probably ruin three lives for it is doubtful whether he could make Jackie happy under these circumstances? If he were actually married to her when he met me I agree that it might be his duty to stick to her though I'm not really sure of that. If one person is unhappy the other suffers too. But engagement is not really binding. If a mistake has been made, then surely it is better to face the fact before it is too late. I admit that it was very hard on Jackie and I'm terribly sorry about it but there it is. It was inevitable."

"I wonder."

She stared at him.

"What do you mean?"

"It is very sensible, very logical all that you say! But it does not explain one thing."

"What is that?"

"Your own attitude, Madame. See you, this pursuit of you, you might take it in two ways, it might cause you annoyances, or it might stir your pity that your friend should have been so deeply hurt as to throw all regard for the conventions aside. But that is not the way you react no, to you this persecution is intolerable and why? It can be for one reason only that you feel a sense of guilt." Linnet sprang to her feet.

"How dare you? Really, M. Poirot, this is going too far." "But I do dare, Madame! I am going to speak to you quite frankly. I suggest to you that, although you may have endeavored to gloss over the fact to yourself, you deliberately set about taking your husband from your friend. I suggest that you felt strongly attracted to him at once. But I suggest that there was a moment when you hesitated when you realized that there was a choice that you could refrain from or go on. I suggest that the initiative rested with you, not with Mr. Doyle. You are beautiful, Madame, you are rich, you are clever, intelligent and you have charm. You could have exercised that charm or you could have restrained it. You had everything, Madame, that life can offer. Your friend's life was bound up in one person. You knew that but though you hesitated,

you did not hold your hand. You stretched it out and like King David you took the poor man's one ewe lamb," There was a silence.

Linnet controlled herself with an effort and said in a cold voice: 'All this is quite beside the point!" "No, it is not beside the point. I am explaining to you just why the unexpected appearances of Mademoiselle de Bellefort have upset you so much. It is because, though she may be unwomanly and undignified in what she is doing, you have the inner conviction that she was right on her side." "That's not true!" Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"You refuse to be honest with yourself." "Not at all." Poirot said gently: "I should say, Madame, that you have had a happy life, that you have been generous and kindly in your attitude towards others." "I have tried to be," said Linnet.

The impatient anger died out of her face.

"And that is why the feeling that you have deliberately caused injury to someone upsets you so much, and why you are so reluctant to admit the fact. Pardon me if I have been impertinent, but the psychology it is the most important factor in a Linnet said slowly: "Even supposing what you say were true and I won't admit it, mind what can be done about it now? One can't alter the past one must deal with things as they are." Poirot nodded.

"You have a clear brain. Yes, one cannot go back over the past. One must accept things as they are. And sometimes, Madame, that is all one can do accept the consequences of one's past deeds." "You mean," said Linnet incredulously, "that I can do nothing?" "You must have courage, Madame, that is what it seems like to me." Linnet said slowly: "Couldn't you talk to Jackie to Miss de Bellefort? Reason with her?" "Yes, I could 'do that. I will do that if you would like me to do so. But do not expect much result. I fancy that Mademoiselle de Bellefort is so much in the grip of a fixed idea that nothing will turn her from it." "But surely we can do something to extricate ourselves?"

"You could, of course, return to England and establish yourself in your own house."

"Even then, I suppose, Jacqueline is capable of planting herself in the village, so that I should see her every time I went out of the grounds.'

"True."

"Besides," said Linnet slowly, "I don't think that Simon would agree to run away.

"What is his attitude in this?" "He's furious, simply furious." Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

Linnet said appealingly: "You will talk to her?"

"Yes, I will do that. But is my opinion that I shall not be able to accomplish anything."

Linnet said violently:

"Jackie is extraordinary! One can't tell what she will do!"

"You spoke just now of certain threats she had made. Would you tell me what those threats were?"

Linnet shrugged her shoulders.

"She threatened to-well kill us both. Jackie can be rather Latin sometimes."

"I see." Poirot's tone was grave.

Linnet turned to him appealingly: "You will act for me?"

"No, Madame." His tone was firm. "I will not accept a commission from you. I will do what I can in the interests of humanity. That, yes. There is here a situation that is full of difficulty and danger. I will do what I can to clear it up but I am not very sanguine as to my chance of success." Linnet Doyle said slowly:

"But you will not act for me?" "No, Madame," said Hercule Poirot.