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all there.’

      ‘On the contrary, I should say she was very much on the spot.’

      ‘I don’t mean that, exactly. She can look after her interests all right. She’s got plenty of business shrewdness. No, I meant morally.’

      ‘Ah! morally.’

      ‘She’s what they call amoral. Right and wrong don’t exist for her.’

      ‘Ah! I remember you said something of the kind the other evening.’

      ‘We were talking of crime just now—’

      ‘Yes, my friend?’

      ‘Well, it would never surprise me if Jane committed a crime.’

      ‘And you should know her well,’ murmured Poirot thoughtfully. ‘You have acted much with her, have you not?’

      ‘Yes. I suppose I know her through and through and up and down. I can see her killing anybody quite easily.’

      ‘Ah! she has the hot temper, yes?’

      ‘No, no, not at all. Cool as a cucumber. I mean if anyone were in her way she’d just remove them—without a thought. And one couldn’t really blame her—morally, I mean. She’d just think that anyone who interfered with Jane Wilkinson had got to go.’

      There was a bitterness in his last words that had been lacking heretofore. I wondered what memory he was recalling.

      ‘You think she would do—murder?’

      Poirot watched him intently.

      Bryan drew a deep breath.

      ‘Upon my soul, I do. Perhaps one of these days, you’ll remember my words… I know her, you see. She’d kill as easily as she’d drink her morning tea. I mean it, M. Poirot.’

      He had risen to his feet.

      ‘Yes,’ said Poirot quietly. ‘I can see you mean it.’

      ‘I know her,’ said Bryan Martin again, ‘through and through.’

      He stood frowning for a minute, then with a change of tone, he said:

      ‘As to this business we’ve been talking about, I’ll let you know, M. Poirot, in a few days. You will undertake it, won’t you?’

      Poirot looked at him for a moment or two without replying.

      ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I will undertake it. I find it—interesting.’

      There was something queer in the way he said the last word. I went downstairs with Bryan Martin. At the door he said to me:

      ‘Did you get the hang of what he meant about that fellow’s age? I mean, why was it interesting that he should be about thirty? I didn’t get the hang of that at all.’

      ‘No more did I,’ I admitted.

      ‘It doesn’t seem to make sense. Perhaps he was just having a game with me.’

      ‘No,’ I said. ‘Poirot is not like that. Depend upon it, the point has significance since he says so.’

      ‘Well, blessed if I can see it. Glad you can’t either. I’d hate to feel I was a complete mutt.’

      He strode away. I rejoined my friend.

      ‘Poirot,’ I said. ‘What was the point about the age of the shadower?’

      ‘You do not see? My poor Hastings!’ He smiled and shook his head. Then he asked: ‘What did you think of our interview on the whole?’

      ‘There’s so little to go upon. It seems difficult to say. If we knew more—’

      ‘Even without knowing more, do not certain ideas suggest themselves to you, mon ami?’

      The telephone ringing at that moment saved me from the ignominy of admitting that no ideas whatever suggested themselves to me. I took up the receiver.

      A woman’s voice spoke, a crisp, clear efficient voice.

      ‘This is Lord Edgware’s secretary speaking. Lord Edgware regrets that he must cancel the appointment with M. Poirot for tomorrow morning. He has to go over to Paris tomorrow unexpectedly. He could see M. Poirot for a few minutes at a quarter-past twelve this morning if that would be convenient.’

      I consulted Poirot.

      ‘Certainly, my friend, we will go there this morning.’

      I repeated this into the mouthpiece.

      ‘Very good,’ said the crisp business-like voice. ‘A quarter-past twelve this morning.’

      She rang off.

       CHAPTER 4

       An Interview

      I arrived with Poirot at Lord Edgware’s house in Regent Gate in a very pleasant state of anticipation. Though I had not Poirot’s devotion to ‘the psychology’, yet the few words in which Lady Edgware had referred to her husband had aroused my curiosity. I was anxious to see what my own judgment would be.

      The house was an imposing one—well-built, handsome and slightly gloomy. There were no window-boxes or such frivolities.

      The door was opened to us promptly, and by no aged white-haired butler such as would have been in keeping with the exterior of the house. On the contrary, it was opened by one of the handsomest young men I have ever seen. Tall, fair, he might have posed to a sculptor for Hermes or Apollo. Despite his good looks there was something vaguely effeminate that I disliked about the softness of his voice. Also, in a curious way, he reminded me of someone—someone, too, whom I had met quite lately—but who it was I could not for the life of me remember.

      We asked for Lord Edgware.

      ‘This way, sir.’

      He led us along the hall, past the staircase, to a door at the rear of the hall.

      Opening it, he announced us in that same soft voice which I instinctively distrusted.

      The room into which we were shown was a kind of library. The walls were lined with books, the furnishings were dark and sombre but handsome, the chairs were formal and not too comfortable.

      Lord Edgware, who rose to receive us, was a tall man of about fifty. He had dark hair streaked with grey, a thin face and a sneering mouth. He looked bad-tempered and bitter. His eyes had a queer secretive look about them. There was something, I thought, distinctly odd about those eyes.

      His manner was stiff and formal.

      ‘M. Hercule Poirot? Captain Hastings? Please be seated.’

      We sat down. The room felt chilly. There was little light coming in from the one window and the dimness contributed to the cold atmosphere.

      Lord Edgware had taken up a letter which I saw to be in my friend’s handwriting.

      ‘I am familiar, of course, with your name, M. Poirot. Who is not?’ Poirot bowed at the compliment. ‘But I cannot quite understand your position in this matter. You say that you wish to see me on behalf of’—he paused—‘my wife.’

      He said the last two words in a peculiar way—as though it were an effort to get them out.

      ‘That is so,’ said my friend.

      ‘I understood that you were an investigator of—crime, M. Poirot?’

      ‘Of problems, Lord Edgware. There are problems of crime, certainly. There are other problems.’

      ‘Indeed. And what may this one be?’

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