IX

“Yes, that’s possible,” admitted John. “Still,” he added, “I’m blest if I can see what his motive could have been.”

I trembled.

“Look here,” I said, “I may be altogether wrong. And, remember, all this is in confidence.”

“Oh, of course⁠—that goes without saying.”

We had walked, as we talked, and now we passed through the little gate into the garden. Voices rose near at hand, for tea was spread out under the sycamore-tree, as it had been on the day of my arrival.

Cynthia was back from the hospital, and I placed my chair beside her, and told her of Poirot’s wish to visit the dispensary.

“Of course! I’d love him to see it. He’d better come to tea there one day. I must fix it up with him. He’s such a dear little man! But he is funny. He made me take the brooch out of my tie the other day, and put it in again, because he said it wasn’t straight.”

I laughed.

“It’s quite a mania with him.”

“Yes, isn’t it?”

We were silent for a minute or two, and then, glancing in the direction of Mary Cavendish, and dropping her voice, Cynthia said:

“ Mr. Hastings.”

“Yes?”

“After tea, I want to talk to you.”