berths on the most luxurious train available, then declined to avail themselves of the accommodation they had paid for. Every now and then Poirot glanced at his watch, and then nodded his head and composed himself to slumber once more. On one occasion he rose from his seat and opened the connecting door, peered sharply into the adjoining compartment, and then returned to his seat, shaking his head.
“What is the matter?” whispered Knighton. “You are expecting something to happen, aren’t you?”
“I have the nerves,” confessed Poirot. “I am like the cat upon the hot tiles. Every little noise it makes me jump.”
Knighton yawned.
“Of all the darned uncomfortable journeys,” he murmured. “I suppose you know what you are playing at, Monsieur Poirot.”
He composed himself to sleep as best he could. Both he and Van Aldin had succumbed to slumber, when Poirot, glancing for the fourteenth time at his watch, leant across and tapped the millionaire on the shoulder.
“Eh? What is it?”
“In five or ten minutes, Monsieur, we shall arrive at Lyons.”
“My God!” Van Aldin’s face looked white and haggard in the dim light. “Then it must have been about this time that poor Ruth was killed.”
He sat staring straight in front of him. His lips twitched a little, his mind reverting back to the terrible tragedy that had saddened his life.
There was the usual long screaming sigh of the brake, and the train slackened speed and drew into Lyons. Van Aldin let down the window and leant out.