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      ‘The Dacres and Angela Sutcliffe,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Nothing about Oliver Manders.’

      ‘Let’s get today’s Continental Daily Mail,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘There might be something in that.’

      Sir Charles glanced over the paper. Suddenly he stiffened.

      ‘My God, Satterthwaite, listen to this:

      ‘SIR BARTHOLOMEW STRANGE.

       ‘At the inquest today on the late Sir Bartholomew Strange, a verdict of Death by Nicotine Poisoning was returned, there being no evidence to show how or by whom the poison was administered.’

      He frowned.

      ‘Nicotine poisoning. Sounds mild enough—not the sort of thing to make a man fall down in a fit. I don’t understand all this.’

      ‘What are you going to do?’

      ‘Do? I’m going to book a berth on the Blue Train tonight.’

      ‘Well,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘I might as well do the same.’

      ‘You?’ Sir Charles wheeled round on him, surprised.

      ‘This sort of thing is rather in my line,’ said Mr Satterthwaite modestly. ‘I’ve—er—had a little experience. Besides, I know the Chief Constable in that part of the world rather well—Colonel Johnson. That will come in useful.’

      ‘Good man,’ cried Sir Charles. ‘Let’s go round to the Wagon Lits offices.’

      Mr Satterthwaite thought to himself:

      ‘The girl’s done it. She’s got him back. She said she would. I wonder just exactly how much of her letter was genuine.’

      Decidedly, Egg Lytton Gore was an opportunist.

      When Sir Charles had gone off to the Wagon Lits offices, Mr Satterthwaite strolled slowly through the gardens. His mind was still pleasantly engaged with the problem of Egg Lytton Gore. He admired her resource and her driving power, and stifled that slightly Victorian side of his nature which disapproved of a member of the fairer sex taking the initiative in affairs of the heart.

      Mr Satterthwaite was an observant man. In the midst of his cogitations on the female sex in general, and Egg Lytton Gore in particular, he was unable to resist saying to himself:

      ‘Now where have I seen that particular shaped head before?’

      The owner of the head was sitting on a seat gazing thoughtfully ahead of him. He was a little man whose moustaches were out of proportion to his size.

      A discontented-looking English child was standing nearby, standing first on one foot, then the other, and occasionally meditatively kicking the lobelia edging.

      ‘Don’t do that, darling,’ said her mother, who was absorbed in a fashion paper.

      ‘I haven’t anything to do,’ said the child.

      The little man turned his head to look at her, and Mr Satterthwaite recognized him.

      ‘M. Poirot,’ he said. ‘This is a very pleasant surprise.’

      M. Poirot rose and bowed.

      ‘Enchanté, monsieur.’

      They shook hands, and Mr Satterthwaite sat down.

      ‘Everyone seems to be in Monte Carlo. Not half an hour ago I ran across Sir Charles Cartwright, and now you.’

      ‘Sir Charles, he also is here?’

      ‘He’s been yachting. You know that he gave up his house at Loomouth?’

      ‘Ah, no, I did not know it. I am surprised.’

      ‘I don’t know that I am. I don’t think Cartwright is really the kind of man who likes to live permanently out of the world.’

      ‘Ah, no, I agree with you there. I was surprised for another reason. It seemed to me that Sir Charles had a particular reason for staying in Loomouth—a very charming reason, eh? Am I not right? The little demoiselle who calls herself, so amusingly, the egg?’

      His eyes were twinkling gently.

      ‘Oh, so you noticed that?’

      ‘Assuredly I noticed. I have the heart very susceptible to lovers—you too, I think. And la jeunesse, it is always touching.’

      He sighed.

      ‘I think,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘that actually you have hit on Sir Charles’s reason for leaving Loomouth. He was running away.’

      ‘From Mademoiselle Egg? But it is obvious that he adores her. Why, then, run?’

      ‘Ah,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘you don’t understand our Anglo-Saxon complexes.’

      M. Poirot was following his own line of reasoning.

      ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘it is a good move to pursue. Run from a woman—immediately she follows. Doubtless Sir Charles, a man of much experience, knows that.’

      Mr Satterthwaite was rather amused.

      ‘I don’t think it was quite that way,’ he said. ‘Tell me, what are you doing out here? A holiday?’

      ‘My time is all holidays nowadays. I have succeeded. I am rich. I retire. Now I travel about seeing the world.’

      ‘Splendid,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.

      ‘N’est-ce pas?’

      ‘Mummy,’ said the English child, ‘isn’t there anything to do?’

      ‘Darling,’ said her mother reproachfully, ‘isn’t it lovely to have come abroad and to be in the beautiful sunshine?’

      ‘Yes, but there’s nothing to do.’

      ‘Run about—amuse yourself. Go and look at the sea.’

      ‘Maman,’ said a French child, suddenly appearing. ‘Joue avec moi.’

      A French mother looked up from her book.

      ‘Amuse toi avec ta balle, Marcelle.’

      Obediently the French child bounced her ball with a gloomy face.

      ‘Je m’amuse,’ said Hercule Poirot; and there was a very curious expression on his face.

      Then, as if in answer to something he read in Mr Satterthwaite’s face, he said:

      ‘But yet, you have the quick perceptions. It is as you think—’

      He was silent for a minute or two, then he said:

      ‘See you, as a boy I was poor. There were many of us. We had to get on in the world. I entered the Police Force. I worked hard. Slowly I rose in that Force. I began to make a name for myself. I made a name for myself. I began to acquire an international reputation. At last, I was due to retire. There came the War. I was injured. I came, a sad and weary refugee, to England. A kind lady gave me hospitality. She died—not naturally; no, she was killed. Eh bien, I set my wits to work. I employed my little grey cells. I discovered her murderer. I found that I was not yet finished. No, indeed, my powers were stronger than ever. Then began my second career, that of a private inquiry agent in England. I have solved many fascinating and baffling problems. Ah, monsieur, I have lived! The psychology of human nature, it is wonderful. I grew rich. Some day, I said to myself, I will have all the money I need. I will realize all my dreams.’

      He laid a hand on Mr Satterthwaite’s knee.

      ‘My friend, beware of the day when your dreams come true. That child near us, doubtless she too has dreamt of coming abroad—of the excitement—of how different everything would be. You understand?’

      ‘I understand,’ said Mr Satterthwaite,

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