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The young man said in a low husky voice:

“About the car, sir, we’ve brought it in. And we’ve got at the trouble. It’s a matter of an hour’s work or so.”

Poirot said:

“What is wrong with it?”

The young man plunged eagerly into technical details. Poirot nodded his head gently, but he was not listening. Perfect physique was a thing he admired greatly. There were, he considered, too many rats in spectacles about. He said to himself approvingly: “Yes, a Greek god—a young shepherd in Arcady.”

The young man stopped abruptly. It was then that Hercule Poirot’s brows knitted themselves for a second. His first reaction had been æsthetic, his second mental. His eyes narrowed themselves curiously, as he looked up.

He said:

“I comprehend. Yes, I comprehend.” He paused and then added: “My chauffeur, he has already told me that which you have just said.”

He saw the flush that came to the other’s cheek, saw the fingers grip the cap nervously.

The young man stammered:

“Yes—er—yes, sir. I know.”

Hercule Poirot went on smoothly:

“But you thought that you would also come and tell me yourself?”

“Er—yes, sir, I thought I’d better.”

“That,” said Hercule Poirot, “was very conscientious of you. Thank you.”

There was a faint but unmistakable note of dismissal in the last words but he did not expect the other to go and he was right. The young man did not move.

His fingers moved convulsively, crushing the tweed cap, and he said in a still lower embarrassed voice:

“Er—excuse me, sir—but it’s true, isn’t it, that you’re the detective gentleman—you’re Mr. Hercules Pwarrit?” He said the name very carefully.

Poirot said: “That is so.”

Red crept up the young man’s face. He said:

“I read a piece about you in the paper.”

“Yes?”

The boy was now scarlet. There was distress in his eyes—distress and appeal. Hercule Poirot came to his aid. He said gently:

“Yes? What is it you want to ask me?”

The words came with a rush now.

“I’m afraid you may think it’s awful cheek of me, sir. But your coming here by chance like this—well, it’s too good to be missed. Having read about you and the clever things you’ve done. Anyway, I said as after all I might as well ask you. There’s no harm in asking, is there?”

Hercule Poirot shook his head. He said:

“You want my help in some way?”

The other nodded. He said, his voice husky and embarrassed:

“It’s—it’s about a young lady. If—if you could find her for me.”

“Find her? Has she disappeared, then?”

“That’s right, sir.”

Hercule Poirot sat up in his chair. He said sharply:

“I could help you, perhaps, yes. But the proper people for you to go to are the police. It is their job and they have far more resources at their disposal than I have.”

The boy shuffled his feet. He said awkwardly:

“I couldn’t do that, sir. It’s not like that at all. It’s all rather peculiar, so to speak.”

Hercule Poirot stared at him. Then he indicated a chair.

“Eh bien, then, sit down—what is your name?”

“Williamson, sir, Ted Williamson.”

“Sit down, Ted. And tell me all about it.”

“Thank you sir.” He drew forward the chair and sat down carefully on the edge of it. His eyes had still that appealing doglike look.

Hercule Poirot said gently:

“Tell me.”

Ted Williamson drew a deep breath.

“Well, you see, sir, it was like this. I never saw her but the once. And I don’t know her right name nor anything. But it’s queer like, the whole thing, and my letter coming back and everything.”

“Start,” said Hercule Poirot, “at the beginning. Do not hurry yourself. Just tell me everything that occurred.”

“Yes, sir. Well, perhaps you know Grasslawn, sir, that big house down by the river past the bridge?”

“I know nothing at all.”

“Belongs to Sir George Sanderfield, it does. He uses it in the summertime for weekends and parties—rather a gay lot he has down as a rule. Actresses and that. Well, it was last June—and the wireless was out of order and they sent me up to see to it.”

Poirot nodded.

“So I went along. The gentleman was out on the river with his guests and the cook was