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on the subject--but she had no chance. The will disappears, and she takes

its secret with her to her grave. Cavendish, I much fear there is no

coincidence there. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that the

facts are very suggestive."

"Suggestive, or not," interrupted John, "we are most grateful to Monsieur

Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we should never have known

of this will. I suppose, I may not ask you, monsieur, what first led you to

suspect the fact?"

Poirot smiled and answered:

"A scribbled over old envelope, and a freshly planted bed of begonias."

John, I think, would have pressed his questions further, but at that moment

the loud purr of a motor was audible, and we all turned to the window as it

swept past.

Evie!" cried John. "Excuse me, Wells." He went hurriedly out into the hall.

Poirot looked inquiringly at me.

"Miss Howard," I explained.

"Ah, I am glad she has come. There is a woman with a head and a heart too,

Hastings. Though the good God gave her no beauty!"

I followed John's example, and went out into the hall, where Miss Howard

was endeavouring to extricate herself from the voluminous mass of veils that

enveloped her head. As her eyes fell on me, a sudden pang of guilt shot

through me. This was the woman who had warned me so earnestly, and to

whose warning I had, alas, paid no heed! How soon, and how

contemptuously, I had dismissed it from my mind. Now that she had been

proved justified in so tragic a manner, I felt ashamed. She had known Alfred

Inglethorp only too well. I wondered whether, if she had remained at Styles,

the tragedy would have taken place, or would the man have feared her

watchful eyes?

I was relieved when she shook me by the hand, with her well remembered

painful grip. The eyes that met mine were sad, but not reproachful; that she

had been crying bitterly, I could tell by the redness of her eyelids, but her

manner was unchanged from its old gruffness.

The Mysterious Affair at Styles