eased than I shall. But, if we are right? If we are right, Miss
Howard, on whose side are you then?"

"I don't know, I don't know----"

"Come now."

"It could be hushed up."

"There must be no hushing up."

"But Emily herself----" She broke off.

"Miss Howard," said Poirot gravely, "this is unworthy of you."

Suddenly she took her face from her hands.

"Yes," she said quietly, "that was not Evelyn Howard who spoke!" She
flung her head up proudly. "_This_ is Evelyn Howard! And she is on the
side of Justice! Let the cost be what it may." And with these words, she
walked firmly out of the room.

"There," said Poirot, looking after her, "goes a very valuable ally.
That woman, Hastings, has got brains as well as a heart."

I did not reply.

"Instinct is a marvellous thing," mused Poirot. "It can neither be
explained nor ignored."

"You and Miss Howard seem to know what you are talking about," I
observed coldly. "Perhaps you don't realize that I am still in the
dark."

"Really? Is that so, mon ami?"

"Yes. Enlighten me, will you?"

Poirot studied me attentively for a moment or two. Then, to my intense
surprise, he shook his head decidedly.

"No, my friend."

"Oh, look here, why not?"

"Two is enough for a secret."

"Well, I think it is very unfair to keep back facts from me."

"I am not keeping back facts. Every fact that I know is in your
possession. You can draw your own deductions from them. This time it is
a question of ideas."

"Still, it would be interesting to know."

Poirot looked at me very earnestly, and again shook his head.

"You see," he said sadly, "_you_ have no instincts."

"It was intelligence you were requiring just now," I pointed out.

"The two often go together," said Poirot enigmatically.

The remark seemed so utterly irrelevant that I did not even take the
trouble to answer it. But I decided that if I made any interesting
and important discoveries--as no doubt I should--I would keep them to
myself, and surprise Poirot with the ultimate result.

There are times when it is one's duty to assert oneself.

CHAPTER IX. DR. BAUERSTEIN

I HAD had no opportunity as yet of passing on Poirot's message to
Lawrence. But now, as I strolled out on the lawn, still nursing a grudge
against my friend's high-handedness, I saw Lawrence on the croquet lawn,
aimlessly knocking a couple of very ancient balls about, with a still
more ancient mallet.

It struck me that it would be