LITMIR.BIZ

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and his ball and something about a picture that was ajar.’

      ‘A picture that was ajar,’ said Poirot thoughtfully.

      ‘Of course, it didn’t make sense, sir, but she was rambling, you see.’

      ‘One moment—I must just go into the drawing-room once more.’

      He wandered round the room examining the ornaments. In especial, one big jar with a lid on it seemed to attract him. It was not, I fancy, a particularly good bit of china. A piece of Victorian humour—it had on it a rather crude picture of a bulldog sitting outside a front door with a mournful expression on its face. Below was written: Out all night and no key.

      Poirot, whose taste I have always been convinced, is hopelessly Bourgeois[203], seemed lost in admiration[204].

      ‘Out all night and no key,’ he murmured. ‘It is amusing, that! Is that true of our Master Bob? Does he sometimes stay out all night?’

      ‘Very occasional, sir. Oh, very occasional. He’s a very good dog, Bob is.’

      ‘I am sure he is. But even the best of dogs—’

      ‘Oh, it’s quite true, sir. Once or twice he’s gone off and come home perhaps at four in the morning. Then he sits down on the step and barks till he’s let in.’

      ‘Who lets him in—Miss Lawson?’

      ‘Well, anyone who hears him, sir. It was Miss Lawson, sir, last time. It was the night of the mistress’s accident. And Bob came home about five. Miss Lawson hurried down to let him in before he could make a noise. She was afraid of waking up the mistress and hadn’t told her Bob was missing for fear of worrying her.’

      ‘I see. She thought it was better Miss Arundell shouldn’t be told?’

      ‘That’s what she said, sir. She said, “He’s sure to come back. He always does, but she might worry and that would never do[205].” So we didn’t say anything.’

      ‘Was Bob fond of Miss Lawson?’

      ‘Well, he was rather contemptuous of her if you know what I mean, sir. Dogs can be. She was kind to him. Called him a good doggie and a nice doggie, but he used to look at her kind of scornful like and he didn’t pay any attention at all to what she told him to do.’

      Poirot nodded. ‘I see,’ he said.

      Suddenly he did something which startled me.

      He pulled a letter from his pocket—the letter he had received this morning.

      ‘Ellen,’ he said, ‘do you know anything about this?’

      The change that came over Ellen’s face was remarkable.

      Her jaw dropped and she stared at Poirot with an almost comical expression of bewilderment.

      ‘Well,’ she ejaculated. ‘I never did!’

      The observation lacked coherency, perhaps, but it left no doubt of Ellen’s meaning.

      Gathering her wits[206] about her she said slowly:

      ‘Are you the gentleman that letter was written to then?’

      ‘I am. I am Hercule Poirot.’

      Like most people, Ellen had not glanced at the name on the order Poirot had held out to her on his arrival. She nodded her head slowly.

      ‘That was it,’ she said. ‘Hercules Poirot.’ She added an S to the Christian name and sounded the T of the surname.

      ‘My word!’[207] she exclaimed. ‘Cook will be surprised.’

      Poirot said, quickly:

      ‘Would it not be advisable, perhaps, for us to go to the kitchen and there in company with your friend, we could talk this matter over?’

      ‘Well—if you don’t mind, sir.’

      Ellen sounded just a little doubtful. This particular social dilemma was clearly new to her. But Poirot’s matter of fact manner[208] reassured her and we departed forthwith to the kitchen, Ellen elucidating the situation to a large, pleasantfaced woman who was just lifting a kettle from a gas ring[209].

      ‘You’ll never believe it, Annie. This is actually the gentleman that letter was to. You know, the one I found in the blotter.’

      ‘You must remember I am in the dark[210],’ said Poirot. ‘Perhaps you will tell me how the letter came to be posted so late in the day?’

      ‘Well, sir, to tell the truth I didn’t know what to do. Neither of us did, did we?’

      ‘Indeed, we didn’t,’ the cook confirmed.

      ‘You see, sir, when Miss Lawson was turning out things after the mistress’s death a good lot of things were given away or thrown away. Among them was a little papier- mache, I think they call it, blotter. Very pretty it was, with a lily of the valley on it. The mistress always used it when she wrote in bed. Well, Miss Lawson didn’t want it so she gave it to me along with a lot of other little odds and ends[211] that had belonged to the mistress. I put it away in a drawer, and it wasn’t till yesterday that I took it out. I was going to put some new blotting-paper in it so that it was ready for me to use. There was a sort of pocket inside and I just slipped my hand in it when what should I find but a letter in the mistress’s handwriting, tucked away.

      ‘Well, as I say I didn’t know rightly what to do about it. It was the mistress’s hand all right, and I saw as she’d written it and slipped it in there waiting to post it the next day and then she’d forgot, which is the kind of thing she did many a time, poor dear. Once it was a dividend warrant[212] to her bank and no one could think where it had got to, and at last it was found pushed right back in the pigeon-holes[213] of the desk.’

      ‘Was she untidy?’

      ‘Oh, no, sir, just the opposite. She was always putting things away and clearing them up. That was half the trouble. If she’d left things about it would really have been better. It was their being tidied away and then forgotten that was always happening.’

      ‘Things like Bob’s ball, for instance?’ asked Poirot with a smile.

      The sagacious terrier had just trotted in from outdoors and greeted us anew in a very friendly manner.

      ‘Yes, indeed, sir. As soon as Bob finished playing with his ball she’d put it away. But that was all right because it had its own place—in the drawer I showed you.’

      ‘I see. But I interrupted you. Pray go on. You discovered the letter in the blotter?’

      ‘Yes, sir, that was the way of it, and I asked Annie what she thought I’d better do. I didn’t like to put it in the fire— and of course, I couldn’t take upon myself[214] to open it, and neither Annie nor I could see that it was any business of Miss Lawson’s so after we’d talked it over a bit, I just put a stamp on it and ran out to the post box and posted it.’

      Poirot turned slightly to me.

      ‘Voilà’[215], he murmured.

      I could not help saying, maliciously:

      ‘Amazing how simple an explanation can be!’

      I thought he looked a little crestfallen, and rather wished I hadn’t been so quick to try and rub it in.

      He turned again to Ellen.

      ‘As

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