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His manner was polite without being effusive. Poirot accepted a chair, and murmured gently:

‘Has Lady Astwell said anything to you of her beliefs and suspicions?’

Owen Trefusis smiled a little.

‘As far as that goes,’ he said, ‘I believe she suspects me. It is absurd, but there it is. She has hardly spoken a civil word to me since Sir Reuben’s death, and she shrinks against the wall as I pass by.’

His manner was perfectly natural, and there was more amusement than resentment in his voice. Poirot nodded with an air of engaging frankness.

‘Between ourselves,’ he explained, ‘she said the same thing to me. I did not argue with her – me, I have made it a rule never to argue with very positive ladies. You comprehend, it is a waste of time.’

‘Oh, quite.’

‘I say, yes, Madame – oh, perfectly, Madame – précisément, Madame. They mean nothing, those words, but they soothe all the same. I make my investigations, for though it seems almost impossible that anyone except M. Leverson could have committed the crime, yet – well, the impossible has happened before now.’

‘I understand your position perfectly,’ said the secretary. ‘Please regard me as entirely at your service.’

‘Bon,’ said Poirot. ‘We understand one another. Now recount to me the events of that evening. Better start with dinner.’

‘Leverson was not at dinner, as you doubtless know,’ said the secretary. ‘He had a serious disagreement with his uncle, and went off to dine at the golf club. Sir Reuben was in a very bad temper in consequence.’

‘Not too amiable, ce Monsieur, eh?’ hinted Poirot delicately.

Trefusis laughed.

‘Oh! He was a Tartar! I haven’t worked with him for nine years without knowing most of his little ways. He was an extraordinarily difficult man, M. Poirot. He would get into childish fits of rage and abuse anybody who came near him.

‘I was used to it by that time. I got into the habit of paying absolutely no attention to anything he said. He was not bad-hearted really, but he could be most foolish and exasperating in his manner. The great thing was never to answer him back.’

‘Were other people as wise as you were in that respect?’

Trefusis shrugged his shoulders.

‘Lady Astwell enjoyed a good row,’ he said. ‘She was not in the least afraid of Sir Reuben, and she always stood up to him and gave him as good as she got. They always made it up afterwards, and Sir Reuben was really devoted to her.’

‘Did they quarrel that night?’

The secretary looked at him sideways, hesitated a minute, then he said:

‘I believe so; what made you ask?’

‘An idea, that is all.’

‘I don’t know, of course,’ explained the secretary, ‘but things looked as though they were working up that way.’

Poirot did not pursue the topic.

‘Who else was at dinner?’

‘Miss Margrave, Mr Victor Astwell, and myself.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘We went into the drawing-room. Sir Reuben did not accompany us. About ten minutes later he came in and hauled me over the coals for some trifling matter about a letter. I went up with him to the Tower room and set the thing straight; then Mr Victor Astwell came in and said he had something he wished to talk to his brother about, so I went downstairs and joined the two ladies.

‘About a quarter of an hour later I heard Sir Reuben’s bell ringing violently, and Parsons came to say I was to go up to Sir Reuben at once. As I entered the room, Mr Victor Astwell was coming out. He nearly knocked me over. Something had evidently happened to upset him. He has a very violent temper. I really believe he didn’t see me.’

‘Did Sir Reuben make any comment on the matter?’

‘He said: “Victor is a lunatic; he will do for somebody some day when he is in one of these rages.”’

‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘Have you any idea what the trouble was about?’

‘I couldn’t say at all.’

Poirot turned his head very slowly and looked at the secretary. Those last words had been uttered too hastily. He formed the conviction that Trefusis could have said more had he wished to do so. But once again Poirot did not press the question.

‘And