as superintendent battle's train rushed eastwards through england, anne meredith and rhoda dawes were in hercule poirot's sitting-room.

anne had been unwilling to accept the invitation that had reached her by the morning's post, but rhoda's counsel had prevailed.

"anneyou're a cowardyes, a coward. it's no good going on being an ostrich, burying your head in the sand. there's been a murder and you're one of the suspects--the least likely one perhaps--

"that would be the worst," said anne with a touch ofhumour. "it's always the least likely person who did it.'

"but you are one," continued rhoda, undisturbed by the interruption. "and so it's no use putting your nose in the air as though murder was a nasty smell and nothing to do with you."

"it is nothing to do with me," anne persisted. "i mean, i'm quite willing to answer any questions the police want to ask me, but this man, this hercule poirot, he's an outsider."

"and what will he think if you hedge and try to get out of it? he'll think you're bursting with guilt."

"i'm certainly not bursting with guilt,' said anne coldly.

"darling, i know that. you couldn't murder anybody ffyou tried. but horrible suspicious foreigners don't know that. i think we ought to go nicely to his house.

otherwise he'll come down here and try to worm things out of the servants." "we haven't got any servants."

"we've got mother astwell. she can wag a tongue with anybody! come on, anne, let's go. it will be rather fun really."

"i don't see why he wants to see me." anne was obstinate.

"to put one over on the official police, of course," said rhoda impatiently. "they always do---the amateurs, i mean. they make out that scotland yard are all boots and brain lessness."

"do you think this man poirot is clever?"

"he doesn't look a sherlock," said rhoda. "i expect he has been quite good in his day. he's gaga now, of course. he must be at least sixty. oh, come on, anne,let's go and see the old boy. he may tell us dreadful things about the others." "all right," said anne, and added, "you do enjoy all this so, rhoda."

"i suppose because it isn't my funeral," said rhoda. "you were a noodle, anne, not just to have looked up at the right minute. if only you had, you could live like a duchess for the rest of your life on blackmail."

so it came about that at three o'clock of that same afternoon, rhoda dawes and anne meredith sat primly on their chairs in poirot's neat room and sipped blackberry sirop (which they disliked very much but were too polite to refuse) from old-fashioned glasses.

"it was most amiable of you to accede to my request, mademoiselle," poirot was saying.

"i'm sure i shall be glad to help you in any way i can," murmured anne vaguely.

"it is a little mater of memory."

"memory?"

"yes, i have already put these questions to mrs. lorrimer, to dr. roberts and to major despard. none of them, alas, have given me the response that i hoped for."

anne continued to look at him inquiringly.

"i want you, mademoiselle, to cast your mind back to that evening in the drawing-room of mr. shaitana."

a weary shadow passed over anne's face. was she never to be free of that nightmare?

poirot noticed the expression.

"i know, mademoiselle, i know," he said kindly. "c'est pnible, n'est ce pas? that is very natural. you, so young as you are, to be brought in contact with horror for the first time. probably you have never known or seen a violent death." rhoda's feet shifted a little uncomfortably on the floor. "well?" said anne.

"cast your mind back. i want you to tell me what you remember of that room?"

anne stared at him suspiciously.

"i don't understand?"

"but, yes. the chairs, the tables, the ornaments, the wallpaper, the curtains, the fire-irons. you saw them all. can you not then describe them?"

"oh, i see." anne hesitated, frowning. "it's difficult. i don't really think i remember. i couldn't say what the wallpaper was like. i think the walls were painted--some inconspicuous colour. there were rugs on the floor. there was a piano." she shook her head. "i really couldn't tell you any more."

"but you are not trying, mademoiselle. you must remember some object, some ornament, some piece of bricabrac?" "there was a case of egyptian jewellery, i remember," said anne slowly. "over by the window." "oh, yes, at the extreme other end of the room from the table on which lay the little dagger." anne looked at him. "i never heard which table that was on." "pas si bte," commented poirot to himself. "but then, no more is hercule poirot! if she knew me better she would realise i would never lay a piege as gross as that!" aloud he said: "a case of egyptian jewellery, you say?" anne answered with some enthusiasm. "yes--some of it was lovely. blues and red. enamel. one or two lovely rings. and scarabsbut i don't like them so much." "he was a great collector, mr. shaitana," murmured poirot. "yes, he must have been," anne agreed. "the room was full of stuff. one couldn't begin to look at it all." "so that you cannot mention anything else that particularly struck your notice?" anne smiled a little as she said: "only a vase of chrysanthemums that badly wanted their water changed."

"ah, yes, servants are not always too particular about that."

poirot was silent for a moment or two.

anne asked timidly. "i'm afraid i didn't notice--whatever it is you wanted me to notice." poirot smiled kindly. "it does not matter, mon enfant. it was, indeed, an outside chance. tell me, have you seen the good major despard lately?" he saw the delicate pink colour come up in the girl's face. she replied:

"he said he would come and see us again quite soon."

rhoda said impetuously: "he didn't do it, anyway! anne and i are quite sure of that." poirot twinkled at them. "how fortunates-to have convinced two such charming young ladies of one's innocence." "oh, dear," thought rhoda. "he's going to be french, and it does embarrass me so. she got up and began examining some etchings on the wall. "these are awfully good," she said. "they are not bad," said poirot. he hesitated, looking at anne. "mademoiselle," he said at last. "i wonder if i might ask you to do me a great favour--oh, nothing to do with the murder. this is an entirely private and personal matter." anne looked a little surprised. poirot went on speaking in a slightly embarrassed manner. "it is, you understand, that christmas is coming on. i have to buy presents for many nieces and grand-nieces. and it is a little difficult to choose what young ladies like in this present time. my tastes, alas, are rather old-fashioned." "yes?" said anne kindly.

"silk stockings, now--are silk stockings a welcome present to receive?" "yes, indeed. it's always nice to be given stockings."

"you relieve my mind. i will ask my favour. i have obtained some different colours. there are, i think, about fifteen or sixteen pairs. would you be so amiable as to look through them and set aside half a dozen pairs that seem to you the most desirable?"

"certainly i will," said anne, rising, with a laugh.

poirot directed her towards a table in an alcove--a table whose contents were strangely at variance, had she but known it, with the well-known order and neatness of hercule poirot. there were stockings piled up in untidy heaps--some fur-lined gloves---calendars and boxes of bonbons.

"i send off my parcels very much l'avance," poirot explained. "see, mademoiselle, here are the stockings. select me, i pray of you, six pairs."

he turned, intercepting rhoda, who was following him.

"as for mademoiselle here, i have a little treat for her--a treat that would be no treat to you, i fancy, mademoiselle meredith." "what is it?" cried rhoda. he lowered his voice.'

"a knife, mademoiselle, with which twelve people once stabbed a man. it was given me as a souvenir by the compagnie internationale des wagons lits." "horrible," cried anne.

"ooh! let me see," said rhoda.

poirot led her through into the other room, talking as he went.

"it was given me by the compagnie internationale des wagons lits because they passed out of the room.

they returned three minutes later. anne came towards them.

"i think these six are the nicest, m. poirot. both these are very good evening shades, and this lighter colour would be nice when summer comes and it's daylight in the evening."

"mille remerciments, mademoiselle."

he offered them more sirop, which they refused, and finally accompanied them to the door, still talking genially.

when they had finally departed he returned to the room and went straight to the littered table. the pile of stockings still lay in a confused heap. poirot counted the six selected pairs and then went on to count the others.

he had bought nineteen pairs. there were now only seventeen.

he nodded his head slowly.