believe?

Yes, it all fitted in.

No wonder Miss Howard had suggested "hushing it up." Now I understood
that unfinished sentence of hers: "Emily herself----" And in my heart
I agreed with her. Would not Mrs. Inglethorp have preferred to go
unavenged rather than have such terrible dishonour fall upon the name of
Cavendish.

"There's another thing," said John suddenly, and the unexpected sound
of his voice made me start guiltily. "Something which makes me doubt if
what you say can be true."

"What's that?" I asked, thankful that he had gone away from the subject
of how the poison could have been introduced into the coco.

"Why, the fact that Bauerstein demanded a post-mortem. He needn't have
done so. Little Wilkins would have been quite content to let it go at
heart disease."

"Yes," I said doubtfully. "But we don't know. Perhaps he thought it
safer in the long run. Some one might have talked afterwards. Then the
Home Office might have ordered exhumation. The whole thing would have
come out, then, and he would have been in an awkward position, for no
one would have believed that a man of his reputation could have been
deceived into calling it heart disease."

"Yes, that's possible," admitted John. "Still," he added, "I'm blest if
I can see what his motive could have been."

I trembled.

"Look here," I said, "I may be altogether wrong. And, remember, all this
is in confidence."

"Oh, of course--that goes without saying."

We had walked, as we talked, and now we passed through the little gate
into the garden. Voices rose near at hand, for tea was spread out under
the sycamore-tree, as it had been on the day of my arrival.

Cynthia was back from the hospital, and I placed my chair beside her,
and told her of Poirot's wish to visit the dispensary.

"Of course! I'd love him to see it. He'd better come to tea there one
day. I must fix it up with him. He's such a dear little man! But he _is_
funny. He made me take the brooch out of my tie the other day, and put
it in again, because he said it wasn't straight."

I laughed.

"It's quite a mania with him."

"Yes, isn't it?"

We were silent for a minute or two, and then, glancing in the direction
of Mary Cavendish, and dropping her voice, Cynthia said:

"Mr. Hastings."

"Yes?"

"After tea, I want to talk to you."

Her glance at Mary had set me thinking. I fancied that between these two
there existed very little sympathy. For the first time, it occurred