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‘My husband thinks I’m lying down. I slipped out of my room quietly. Colonel Johnson,’ she appealed to him with wide, distressed eyes, ‘if I tell you the truth you will keep quiet about it, won’t you? I mean you don’t have to make everything public?’

Colonel Johnson said:

‘You mean, I take it, Mrs Lee, something that has no connection with the crime?’

‘Yes, no connection at all. Just something in my—my private life.’

The chief constable said:

‘You’d better make a clean breast of it, Mrs Lee, and leave us to judge.’

Magdalene said, her eyes swimming:

‘Yes, I will trust you. I know I can. You look so kind. You see, it’s like this. There’s somebody—’ She stopped.

‘Yes, Mrs Lee?’

‘I wanted to telephone to somebody last night—a man—a friend of mine, and I didn’t want George to know about it. I know it was very wrong of me—but well, it was like that. So I went to telephone after dinner when I thought George would be safely in the dining-room. But when I got here I heard him telephoning, so I waited.’

‘Where did you wait, madame?’ asked Poirot.

‘There’s a place for coats and things behind the stairs. It’s dark there. I slipped back there, where I could see George come out from this room. But he didn’t come out, and then all the noise happened and Mr Lee screamed, and I ran upstairs.’

‘So your husband did not leave this room until the moment of the murder?’

‘No.’

The chief constable said:

‘And you yourself from nine o’clock to nine-fifteen were waiting in the recess behind the stairs?’

‘Yes, but I couldn’t say so, you see! They’d want to know what I was doing there. It’s been very, very awkward for me, you do see that, don’t you?’

Johnson said dryly:

‘It was certainly awkward.’

She smiled at him sweetly.

‘I’m so relieved to have told you the truth. And you won’t tell my husband, will you? No, I’m sure you won’t! I can trust you, all of you.’

She included them all in her final pleading look, then she slipped quickly out of the room.

Colonel Johnson drew a deep breath.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘It might be like that! It’s a perfectly plausible story. On the other hand—’

‘It might not,’ finished Sugden. ‘That’s just it. We don’t know.’

III

Lydia Lee stood by the far window of the drawing-room looking out. Her figure was half hidden by the heavy window curtains. A sound in the room made her turn with a start to see Hercule Poirot standing by the door.

She said:

‘You startled me, M. Poirot.’

‘I apologize, madame. I walk softly.’

She said:

‘I thought it was Horbury.’

Hercule Poirot nodded.

‘It is true, he steps softly, that one—like a cat—or a thief.’

He paused a minute, watching her.

Her face showed nothing, but she made a slight grimace of distate as she said:

‘I have never cared for that man. I shall be glad to get rid of him.’

‘I think you will be wise to do so, madame.’

She looked at him quickly. She said:

‘What do you mean? Do you know anything against him?’

Poirot said:

‘He is a man who collects secrets—and uses them to his advantage.’

She said sharply:

‘Do you think he knows anything—about the murder?’

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said:

‘He has quiet feet and long ears. He may have overheard something that he is keeping to himself.’

Lydia said clearly:

‘Do you mean that he may try to blackmail one of us?’

‘It is within the bounds of possibility. But that is not what I came here to say.’

‘What did you come to say?’

Poirot said slowly:

‘I have been talking with M. Alfred Lee. He has made me a proposition, and I wished to discuss it with you before accepting or declining it. But I was so struck by the picture you made—the charming pattern of your jumper against the deep red of the curtains, that I paused to admire.’

Lydia said sharply:

‘Really, M. Poirot, must we waste time in compliments?’

‘I beg your pardon, madame. So few English ladies understand la toilette. The dress you were wearing the first night I saw you, its bold but simple pattern,