To my extreme annoyance, Poirot was not in, and the old Belgian who answered my knock informed me that he believed he had gone to London.

I was dumbfounded. What on earth could Poirot be doing in London! Was it a sudden decision on his part, or had he already made up his mind when he parted from me a few hours earlier?

I retraced my steps to Styles in some annoyance. With Poirot away, I was uncertain how to act. Had he foreseen this arrest? Had he not, in all probability, been the cause of it? Those questions I could not resolve. But in the meantime what was I to do? Should I announce the arrest openly at Styles, or not? Though I did not acknowledge it to myself, the thought of Mary Cavendish was weighing on me. Would it not be a terrible shock to her? For the moment, I set aside utterly any suspicions of her. She could not be implicated--otherwise I should have heard some hint of it.

Of course, there was no possibility of being able permanently to conceal Dr. Bauerstein's arrest from her. It would be announced in every newspaper on the morrow. Still, I shrank from blurting it out. If only Poirot had been accessible, I could have asked his advice. What possessed him to go posting off to London in this unaccountable way?

In spite of myself, my opinion of his sagacity was immeasurably heightened. I would never have dreamt of suspecting the doctor, had not Poirot put it into my head. Yes, decidedly, the little man was clever.

After some reflecting, I decided to take John into my confidence, and leave him to make the matter public or not, as he thought fit.

He gave vent to a prodigious whistle, as I imparted the news.

"Great Scot! You _were_ right, then. I couldn't believe it at the time."

"No, it is astonishing until you get used to the idea, and see how it makes everything fit in. Now, what are we to do? Of course, it will be generally known to-morrow."

John reflected.

"Never mind," he said at last, "we won't say anything at present. There is no need. As you say, it will be known soon enough."

But to my intense surprise, on getting down early the next morning, and eagerly opening the newspapers, there was not a word about the arrest! There was a column of mere padding about "The Styles Poisoning Case," but nothing further. It was rather inexplicable, but I supposed that, for some reason or other, Japp wished to keep it out of the papers. It worried me just a little, for it suggested the possibility that there might be further arrests to come.

After breakfast, I decided to go down to the village, and see if Poirot had returned yet; but, before I could start, a well-known face blocked one of the windows, and the well-known voice said:

"Bon jour, mon ami!"

"Poirot," I exclaimed, with relief, and seizing him by both hands, I dragged him into the room. "I was never so glad to see anyone. Listen, I have said nothing to anybody but John. Is that right?"

"My friend," replied Poirot, "I do not know what you are talking about."

"Dr. Bauerstein's arrest, of course," I answered impatiently.

"Is Bauerstein arrested, then?"

"Did you not know it?"

"Not the least in the world." But, pausing a moment, he added: "Still, it does not surprise me. After all, we are only four miles from the coast."

"The coast?" I asked, puzzled. "What has that got to do with it?"

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"Surely, it is obvious!"

"Not to me. No doubt I am very dense, but I cannot see what the proximity of the coast has got to do with the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp."

"Nothing at all, of course," replied Poirot, smiling. "But we were speaking of the arrest of Dr. Bauerstein."

"Well, he is arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp----"

"What?" cried Poirot, in apparently lively astonishment. "Dr. Bauerstein arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp?"

"Yes."

"Impossible! That would be too good a farce! Who told you that, my friend?"

"Well, no one exactly told me," I confessed. "But he is arrested."

"Oh, yes, very likely. But for espionage, mon ami."

"Espionage?" I gasped.

"Precisely."

"Not for poisoning Mrs. Inglethorp?"

"Not unless our friend Japp has taken leave of his senses," replied Poirot placidly.

"But--but I thought you thought so too?"

Poirot gave me one look, which conveyed a wondering pity, and his full sense of the utter absurdity of such an idea.

"Do you mean to say," I asked, slowly adapting myself to the new idea, "that Dr. Bauerstein is a spy?"

Poirot nodded.

"Have you never suspected it?"

"It never entered my head."

"It did not strike you as peculiar that a famous London doctor should bury himself in a little village like this, and should be in the habit of walking about at all hours of the night, fully dressed?"

"No," I confessed, "I never thought of such a thing."

"He is, of course, a German by birth," said Poirot thoughtfully, "though he has practiced so long in this country that nobody thinks of him as anything but an Englishman. He was naturalized about fifteen years ago. A very clever man--a Jew, of course."

"The blackguard!" I cried indignantly.

"Not at all. He is, on the contrary, a patriot. Think what he stands to lose. I admire the man myself."

But I could not look at it in Poirot's philosophical way.

"And this is the man with whom Mrs. Cavendish has been wandering about all over the country!" I cried indignantly.

"Yes. I should fancy he had found her very useful," remarked Poirot. "So long as gossip busied itself in coupling their names together, any other vagaries of the doctor's passed unobserved."

"Then you think he never really cared for her?" I asked eagerly--rather too eagerly, perhaps, under the circumstances.

"That, of course, I cannot say, but--shall I tell you my own private opinion, Hastings?"

"Yes."

"Well, it is this: that Mrs. Cavendish does not care, and never has cared one little jot about Dr. Bauerstein!"

"Do you really think so?" I could not disguise my pleasure.

"I am quite sure of it. And I will tell you why."

"Yes?"

"Because she cares for some one else, mon ami."

"Oh!" What did he mean? In spite of myself, an agreeable warmth spread over me. I am not a vain man where women are concerned, but I remembered certain evidences, too lightly thought of at the time, perhaps, but which certainly seemed to indicate----

My pleasing thoughts were interrupted by the sudden entrance of Miss Howard. She glanced round hastily to make sure there was no one else in the room, and quickly produced an old sheet of brown paper. This she handed to Poirot, murmuring as she did so the cryptic words:

"On top of the wardrobe." Then she hurriedly left the room.

Poirot unfolded the sheet of paper eagerly, and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. He spread it out on the table.

"Come here, Hastings. Now tell me, what is that initial--J. or L.?"

It was a medium sized sheet of paper, rather dusty, as though it had lain by for some time. But it was the label that was attracting Poirot's attention. At the top, it bore the printed stamp of Messrs. Parkson's, the well-known theatrical costumiers, and it was addressed to "--(the debatable initial) Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court, Styles St. Mary, Essex."

"It might be T., or it might be L.," I said, after studying the thing for a minute or two. "It certainly isn't a J."

"Good," replied Poirot, folding up the paper again. "I, also, am of your way of thinking. It is an L., depend upon it!"

"Where did it come from?" I asked curiously. "Is it important?"

"Moderately so. It confirms a surmise of mine. Having deduced its existence, I set Miss Howard to search for it, and, as you see, she has been successful."

"What did she mean by 'On the top of the wardrobe'?"

"She meant," replied Poirot promptly, "that she found it on top of a wardrobe."

"A funny place for a piece of brown paper," I mused.

"Not at all. The top of a wardrobe is an excellent place for brown paper and cardboard boxes. I have kept them there myself. Neatly arranged, there is nothing to offend the eye."

"Poirot," I asked earnestly, "have you made up your mind about this crime?"

"Yes--that is to say, I believe I know how it was committed."

"Ah!"

"Unfortunately, I have no proof beyond my surmise, unless----" With sudden energy, he caught me by the arm, and whirled me down the hall, calling out in French in his excitement: "Mademoiselle Dorcas, Mademoiselle Dorcas, un moment, s'il vous plait!"

Dorcas, quite flurried by the noise, came hurrying out of the pantry.

"My good Dorcas, I have an idea--a little idea--if it should prove justified, what magnificent chance! Tell me, on Monday, not Tuesday, Dorcas, but Monday, the day before the tragedy, did anything go wrong with Mrs. Inglethorp's bell?"

Dorcas looked very surprised.

"Yes, sir, now you mention it, it did; though I don't know how you came to hear of it. A mouse, or some such, must have nibbled the wire through. The man came and put it right on Tuesday morning."

With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot led the way back to the morning-room.

"See you, one should not ask for outside proof--no, reason should be enough. But the flesh is weak, it is consolation to find that one is on the right track. Ah, my friend, I am like a giant refreshed. I run! I leap!"

And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside the long window.

"What is your remarkable little friend doing?" asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. "What is it all about?"

"Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!"

Mary laughed.

"How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?"

"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."

"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?"

"I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness."

"I see."

In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost sad.

It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, I thought, but I had not gone far before she stopped me authoritatively.

"You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt, Mr. Hastings, but in this case your talents are quite thrown away. Cynthia will run no risk of encountering any unkindness from me."

I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn't thought--But again she stopped me, and her words were so unexpected that they quite drove Cynthia, and her troubles, out of my mind.

"Mr. Hastings," she said, "do you think I and my husband are happy together?"

I was considerably taken aback, and murmured something about it's not being my business to think anything of the sort.

"Well," she said quietly, "whether it is your business or not, I will tell you that we are _not_ happy."

I said nothing, for I saw that she had not finished.

She began slowly, walking up and down the room, her head a little bent, and that slim, supple figure of hers swaying gently as she walked. She stopped suddenly, and looked up at me.

"You don't know anything about me, do you?" she asked. "Where I come from, who I was before I married John--anything, in fact? Well, I will tell you. I will make a father confessor of you. You are kind, I think--yes, I am sure you are kind."

Somehow, I was not quite as elated as I might have been. I remembered that Cynthia had begun her confidences in much the same way. Besides, a father confessor should be elderly, it is not at all the role for a young man.

"My father was English," said Mrs. Cavendish, "but my mother was a Russian."

"Ah," I said, "now I understand--"

"Understand what?"

"A hint of something foreign--different--that there has always been about you."

"My mother was very beautiful, I believe. I don't know, because I never saw her. She died when I was quite a little child. I believe there was some tragedy connected with her death--she took an overdose of some sleeping draught by mistake. However that may be, my father was broken-hearted. Shortly afterwards, he went into the Consular Service. Everywhere he went, I went with him. When I was twenty-three, I had been nearly all over the world. It was a splendid life--I loved it."

There was a smile on her face, and her head was thrown back. She seemed living in the memory of those old glad days.

"Then my father died. He left me very badly off. I had to go and live with some old aunts in Yorkshire." She shuddered. "You will understand me when I say that it was a deadly life for a girl brought up as I had been. The narrowness, the deadly monotony of it, almost drove me mad." She paused a minute, and added in a different tone: "And then I met John Cavendish."

"Yes?"

"You can imagine that, from my aunts' point of view, it was a very good match for me. But I can honestly say it was not this fact which weighed with me. No, he was simply a way of escape from the insufferable monotony of my life."

I said nothing, and after a moment, she went on:

"Don't misunderstand me. I was quite honest with him. I told him, what was true, that I liked him very much, that I hoped to come to like him more, but that I was not in any way what the world calls 'in love' with him. He declared that that satisfied him, and so--we were married."

She waited a long time, a little frown had gathered on her forehead. She seemed to be looking back earnestly into those past days.

"I think--I am sure--he cared for me at first. But I suppose we were not well matched. Almost at once, we drifted apart. He--it is not a pleasing thing for my pride, but it is the truth--tired of me very soon." I must have made some murmur of dissent, for she went on quickly: "Oh, yes, he did! Not that it matters now--now that we've come to the parting of the ways."

"What do you mean?"

She answered quietly:

"I mean that I am not going to remain at Styles."

"You and John are not going to live here?"

"John may live here, but I shall not."

"You are going to leave him?"

"Yes."

"But why?"

She paused a long time, and said at last:

"Perhaps--because I want to be--free!"

And, as she spoke, I had a sudden vision of broad spaces, virgin tracts of forests, untrodden lands--and a realization of what freedom would mean to such a nature as Mary Cavendish. I seemed to see her for a moment as she was, a proud wild creature, as untamed by civilization as some shy bird of the hills. A little cry broke from her lips:

"You don't know, you don't know, how this hateful place has been prison to me!"

"I understand," I said, "but--but don't do anything rash."

"Oh, rash!" Her voice mocked at my prudence.

Then suddenly I said a thing I could have bitten out my tongue for:

"You know that Dr. Bauerstein has been arrested?"

An instant coldness passed like a mask over her face, blotting out all expression.

"John was so kind as to break that to me this morning."

"Well, what do you think?" I asked feebly.

"Of what?"

"Of the arrest?"

"What should I think? Apparently he is a German spy; so the gardener had told John."

Her face and voice were absolutely cold and expressionless. Did she care, or did she not?

She moved away a step or two, and fingered one of the flower vases.

"These are quite dead. I must do them again. Would you mind moving--thank you, Mr. Hastings." And she walked quietly past me out of the window, with a cool little nod of dismissal.

No, surely she could not care for Bauerstein. No woman could act her part with that icy unconcern.

Poirot did not make his appearance the following morning, and there was no sign of the Scotland Yard men.

But, at lunch-time, there arrived a new piece of evidence--or rather lack of evidence. We had vainly tried to trace the fourth letter, which Mrs. Inglethorp had written on the evening preceding her death. Our efforts having been in vain, we had abandoned the matter, hoping that it might turn up of itself one day. And this is just what did happen, in the shape of a communication, which arrived by the second post from a firm of French music publishers, acknowledging Mrs. Inglethorp's cheque, and regretting they had been unable to trace a certain series of Russian folksongs. So the last hope of solving the mystery, by means of Mrs. Inglethorp's correspondence on the fatal evening, had to be abandoned.

Just before tea, I strolled down to tell Poirot of the new disappointment, but found, to my annoyance, that he was once more out.

"Gone to London again?"

"Oh, no, monsieur, he has but taken the train to Tadminster. 'To see a young lady's dispensary,' he said."

"Silly ass!" I ejaculated. "I told him Wednesday was the one day she wasn't there! Well, tell him to look us up to-morrow morning, will you?"

"Certainly, monsieur."

But, on the following day, no sign of Poirot. I was getting angry. He was really treating us in the most cavalier fashion.

After lunch, Lawrence drew me aside, and asked if I was going down to see him.

"No, I don't think I shall. He can come up here if he wants to see us."

"Oh!" Lawrence looked indeterminate. Something unusually nervous and excited in his manner roused my curiosity.

"What is it?" I asked. "I could go if there's anything special."

"It's nothing much, but--well, if you are going, will you tell him--" he dropped his voice to a whisper--"I think I've found the extra coffee-cup!"

I had almost forgotten that enigmatical message of Poirot's, but now my curiosity was aroused afresh.

Lawrence would say no more, so I decided that I would descend from my high horse, and once more seek out Poirot at Leastways Cottage.

This time I was received with a smile. Monsieur Poirot was within. Would I mount? I mounted accordingly.

Poirot was sitting by the table, his head buried in his hands. He sprang up at my entrance.

"What is it?" I asked solicitously. "You are not ill, I trust?"

"No, no, not ill. But I decide an affair of great moment."

"Whether to catch the criminal or not?" I asked facetiously.

But, to my great surprise, Poirot nodded gravely.

" 'To speak or not to speak,' as your so great Shakespeare says, 'that is the question.' "

I did not trouble to correct the quotation.

"You are not serious, Poirot?"

"I am of the most serious. For the most serious of all things hangs in the balance."

"And that is?"

"A woman's happiness, mon ami," he said gravely.

I did not quite know what to say.

"The moment has come," said Poirot thoughtfully, "and I do not know what to do. For, see you, it is a big stake for which I play. No one but I, Hercule Poirot, would attempt it!" And he tapped himself proudly on the breast.

After pausing a few minutes respectfully, so as not to spoil his effect, I gave him Lawrence's message.

"Aha!" he cried. "So he has found the extra coffee-cup. That is good. He has more intelligence than would appear, this long-faced Monsieur Lawrence of yours!"

I did not myself think very highly of Lawrence's intelligence; but I forebore to contradict Poirot, and gently took him to task for forgetting my instructions as to which were Cynthia's days off.

"It is true. I have the head of a sieve. However, the other young lady was most kind. She was sorry for my disappointment, and showed me everything in the kindest way."

"Oh, well, that's all right, then, and you must go to tea with Cynthia another day."

I told him about the letter.

"I am sorry for that," he said. "I always had hopes of that letter. But no, it was not to be. This affair must all be unravelled from within." He tapped his forehead. "These little grey cells. It is 'up to them'--as you say over here." Then, suddenly, he asked: "Are you a judge of finger-marks, my friend?"

"No," I said, rather surprised, "I know that there are no two finger-marks alike, but that's as far as my science goes."

"Exactly."

He unlocked a little drawer, and took out some photographs which he laid on the table.

"I have numbered them, 1, 2, 3. Will you describe them to me?"

I studied the proofs attentively.

"All greatly magnified, I see. No. 1, I should say, are a man's finger-prints; thumb and first finger. No. 2 are a lady's; they are much smaller, and quite different in every way. No. 3"--I paused for some time--"there seem to be a lot of confused finger-marks, but here, very distinctly, are No. 1's."

"Overlapping the others?"

"Yes."

"You recognize them beyond fail?"

"Oh, yes; they are identical."

Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs from me locked them up again.

"I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not going to explain?"

"On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of Monsieur Lawrence. No. 2 were those of Mademoiselle Cynthia. They are not important. I merely obtained them for comparison. No. 3 is a little more complicated."

"Yes?"

"It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may have noticed a sort of blur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is a well-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints of any object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks--it remains to tell you the particular object on which they had been left."

"Go on--I am really excited."

"Eh bien! Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster--which sounds like the house that Jack built!"

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!"

"Oh, yes, he did!"

"Impossible! We were all together the whole time."

Poirot shook his head.

"No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony."

"I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment."

"Long enough."

"Long enough for what?"

Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical.

"Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity."

Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously.

"Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?"

Poirot looked out of the window.

"Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum.

"Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer.

"They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little-- only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then."

"How did you manage to take this photograph?"

"I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me."

"Then you knew what you were going to find?"

"No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated."

"Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery."

"I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too."

"What is that?"

"Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion."

Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in.

"There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings."

"A lady?"

I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway.

"I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you."

"Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!"

"I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling.

"That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" --she started ever so slightly--"remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service."

She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away.

"Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?"

"Enchanted, madame."

All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes.

The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing.

We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong.

Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears.

"Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you--"

"What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once."

"It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him--they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!"

"Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped.

I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes.

"No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence--Mr. John."

Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes.

使我极度烦恼的是波洛不在，那位来给我开门的比利时老汉告诉我说，他相信波洛去伦敦了。

我惊讶得目瞪口呆了。波洛去伦敦究竟于什么呀！这是他突然决定的呢，还是几小时前和我分手时就有了这个念头的？

我怀着某种烦恼的心情顺原路返回斯泰尔斯。由于波洛走了，没法确定该怎么行动。他已预见到这次逮捕吗？他很可能不是为这桩案子去的？这些问题我都没法解答。可是在这段时间里，我得做点什么呢？该不该在斯泰尔斯公开宣布这一逮捕的消息？尽管我不会对自己承认这一点，为玛丽·卡文迪什担忧的想法却一直压在我的心头。这对她会不会是一个可怕的打击？此刻，我已把对她的任何怀疑完全搁到一边。她不可能受牵连的——要不我就该听到一些有关的风声。

当然，鲍斯坦医生被捕的事不可能永久地瞒住她。这会在第二天的各种报纸上发表。可是我还是怕脱口说出这件事。只要能见到波洛，我就可以问问他的意见了。什么事如此不可理解地使他匆匆前往伦敦呢？

我对他的洞察力的评价，禁不住无边无际地增大了。要不是波洛在我脑子里安进这个念头，我是做梦也不会怀疑这位医生的。是啊，很明显，这个小个子的确机灵。

经过一番考虑，我决定把约翰当作知心人，在他认为合适的时候，是否让他来公开这件事。

当我向他透露了这个消息后，他吹了一声奇妙的口哨。

“天哪！那么说你是对了。不过我可现在都不相信。”

“不，这事是惊人的，要到你对此习惯为止，你瞧，这使得每件事都合情合理了。现在，我们该怎么办？当然，一般说来，明天大家就会知道了。”

约翰考虑了一下。

“没关系，”他终于说，“目前，我们什么也不要说。没有必要。象你说的那样，这件事大家很快就可知道的。”

但是，使我吃惊的是，第二天一早下楼，急切地打开报纸一看，关于逮捕的事，上面居然一个字也没有！只有一个纯粹是铺张词藻的“斯泰尔斯毒杀案”专栏，没什么新内容。这颇为令人费解，不过我猜想，这是基于某种原因，贾普希望让它置身于报纸之外。可这恰恰使我有点担忧，因为这有可能将来作进一步的逮捕。

吃过早饭，我决定到村子去一趟，看着波洛是否已经回来；可是，在我动身之前，一张熟悉的脸孔挡住了窗口，一个熟悉的声音说：

“早安，我的朋友！”

“波洛！”我宽慰地喊了起来，然后抓住他的双手，把他拉进房间。”我看到任何人都从来没有这样高兴过。听我说，除了约翰，我没有告诉过任何人。这对吗？”

“我的朋友，”波洛回答说，“我不知道你在说些什么呀？”

“当然是鲍斯坦医生被捕的事啦，”我不耐烦地回答。

“这么说鲍斯坦被捕了？”

“这你不知道？”

“这事我确实一点也不知道哩，”然而，他停了一下，补充说：“不过这并不使我吃惊，我们这里离海岸毕竟只有四英里。”

“海岸？”我迷惑不解地问道。“那和这有什么关系？”

波洛耸了耸肩膀。

“说实在，这是很清楚的。”

“我可不清楚。也许我太笨了，可是我看不出靠近海岸和英格里桑太大的谋杀案有什么关系。”

“当然毫无关系，”波洛微笑着回答说，“可是我们现在是在谈鲍斯坦医生的被捕呀。”

“是呀，他是由于谋杀英格里桑太太被捕的——”

“什么？”波洛喊了起来，显然是大吃一惊。“鲍斯坦医生被捕是由于谋杀英格里桑太太？”

“是呀。”

“不可能！那大概是一出绝妙的滑稽戏吧！谁告诉你的，朋友？”

“嗯，没有一个人确切地告诉我过，”我承认。“可是他被捕了。”

“哦，是的，很可能。但那是由于间谍活动，我的朋友。”

“间谍活动？”我喘不过气来了。

“正是如此。”

“不是由于毒死英格里桑太太？”

“不是的，除非我们的朋友贾普发疯了，”波洛平静地回答。

“可是——可是我以为你也这样想的。”

波洛朝我看了一眼，这一眼转达了一种感到惊讶的遗憾，以及完全认为这种念头是十足荒谬的神情。

“你的意思是说，鲍斯坦医生是个间谍？”我问道，慢慢地使我自己适应了这种新的想法。

波洛点点头。

“你从来都没有怀疑到这点？”

“我从来没有想到过。”

“一个著名的伦敦医生就这么隐居在一个小村子里，习惯于整个晚上都穿戴整齐地到处闲逛，这没有使你感到奇怪吗？”

“没有，”我承认说，“我从来没有想到过这样的事。”

“他原来当然是个德国人。”波洛若有所思地说，“虽然他在这个国家已经开业很久，甚至没有一个人会认为他不是英国人。大约十五年前，他加入了英国籍。是个很聪明的人——当然，是个犹太人。”

“恶棍！”我愤慨地叫了起来。

“根本不是。恰恰相反，他是一个爱国主义者。你想，他受到多大的损失。我本人钦佩这种人。”

但是，我可没法用波洛的哲学方法来看待这件事。

“而这就是卡文迪什太太一直和他在村子里到处闲逛的那个人！”我愤慨地喊道。

“是的。我得认为，这是他发现她很有用处，”波洛说。“只要爱说闲话的人忙着把他们俩的名字连在一起，这位医生的任何古怪行径也就不会引人注意了。”

“那么你认为他从来没有真正对她喜欢过吗？”我急切地问道——在这种情况下也许稍微太急切了一点。

“那当然我说不出，可是要我告诉你我个人的意见吗，哈斯丁？”

“好的。

“好吧，是这样：卡文迪什太太并不喜欢他，她丝毫没有喜欢过鲍斯坦医生！”

“你真的这样认为？”我没法掩饰住我的高兴。

“我完全确信这一点。我会告诉诉你为什么。”

“是吗？”

“因为她喜欢的是另外一个人，我的朋友。”

“哦！”他这是什么意思呢？不由自主地，一股令人愉快的暖流传遍了我的全身，我不是个牵涉到女人时九爱虚荣的人，但是我回忆起某些迹象，现在想来也许太轻而易举了，可它们似乎的确暗示了——

我的美好的沉思被霍华德小姐的突然进来打断了。她慌忙朝四周扫视了一眼，弄清房间里没有别的人，接着就飞快地拿出一张旧的包装纸。她把这递给了波洛，低声说了这么句含义隐晦的话：

“在那口衣柜顶上。”

说完她就匆匆地离开了房间。

波洛急忙打开这张纸，发出一声满意的惊叫。他把它摊在桌子上。

“过来，哈斯丁。告诉我，这个起首字母是什么——J.还是L.？”

这是张中号尺寸的包装纸，上面满是灰尘，好象搁着有一段时间了。但是引起波洛注意的是顶上的签条。上面有著名戏剧服装商派克森先生商店的印戳，它寄给“埃塞克斯，斯泰尔斯村，斯泰尔斯庄园，X（尚未确定的起首字母）卡文迪什先生。”

“这可能是T.或者是L.，”我对这研究了一番后说，“决不是J.。”

“好，”波洛回答说，重又把纸折了起来。“我也是和你一样的想法。没错，这是个L.①！”

“这是哪儿来的？”我好奇地问道。“重要吗？”

“中等程度。这进一步证实了我的推测。我推断有这么一张纸，就叫霍华德小姐去搜寻，结果，如你刚才所看见的，她找到了。”

“她说的‘在那口衣柜顶上’是什么意思？”

“她说的意思是，”波洛立刻回答。“她是在一口大柜顶上找到它的。”

“放张包装纸的怪地方，”我沉思着。

“根本不奇怪。大柜顶上是放包装纸和纸盒子的好地方。我自己就是把它们放在那儿的。摆整齐了，一点也不刺眼。”

“波洛，”我认真地问道，“关于这件罪行，你已经有自己的想法了吗？”

“是的——可以说，我相信我知道是怎么干的。”

“啊！”

“不幸的是，除了推测之外我还没有证据，除非——”他突然使劲一把抓住我的手臂，旋风似地急速把我带到楼下过道里，激动地用法语喊道：“多卡斯小姐，多卡斯小姐，有空请你来一下！”

多卡斯被这叫声弄得张皇失措，急忙从餐具室里奔了出来。

“我亲爱的多卡斯，我有一个想法———个小小的想法——要是它证明是正确的，那该是多好的运气！告诉我，星期一，不是星期二，多卡斯，而是星期一，就是法生惨案的前一天，英格里桑太大的电铃是不是出过毛病？”

多卡斯显得十分吃惊。

“是的，先生，你说中了，它是出过毛病；可是我不知道你这是怎么听说的。一定是老鼠什么的把线给咬断了。星期二早上来人修好的。”

波洛高兴得长长地惊叫了一声，带头回到休息室。

“瞧，一个人不一定去找表面的证据——不，只需推理也行。可是人类是脆弱的，发现他的想法完全对头，就得到安慰了。嗨，我的朋友，我现在就象一个精神振作的巨人。我要跑！我要跳！”

他真的又跑又跳起来，胡乱往下跳到落地长窗外面的那一大片草坪上去了。

“你那位不平常的小个子朋友在做什么呀？“我身后的一个声音问道。我一回头，发现玛丽·卡文迪什就在我的旁边。她微笑着，于是我也笑了。“这是怎么一回事？”

“我实在没法告诉你。他问了多卡斯一个关于电铃的问题，她给他回答以后，他就高兴得象你看到的这样蹦蹦跳跳了！”

玛丽笑了。

“多滑稽！他从大门出去了。今天他不回来了吗？”

“我不知道。我已经不想去猜测下一次他要做什么了。”

“他的确有点疯疯癫癫吗？哈斯丁先生？”

“我真的不知道。有时候，我确信他是疯疯癫癫的；其次，在他最癫狂的时候，我发现他的癫狂是有条理的。”

“我明白了。”

尽管玛丽在笑，”可是今天早上她看上去心事重重。她似乎很严肃，几乎有点哀伤。

我想，这也许是和她交涉辛西娅问题的好机会。我认为，一开始，我还颇为得体，可是我没说多久，她就以命令的口吻把我给止住了。

“我不怀疑，你是一位杰出的辩护律师，哈斯丁先生，可是在这件‘案子’上，你的才能算是给完全白扔了。辛西娅不会遭到我的任何刻薄对待的。”

我开始无力地结结巴巴说，希望她不要认为——可是她再次止住了我，而她的话是那么出人意外，以致从我的脑子里彻底赶跑了辛西娅，以及她的烦恼。

“哈斯丁先生，”她说，“你认为我和我的丈夫在一起幸福吗？”

我大大地吃了一惊，于是支支吾吾地说了几句，我说找无权考虑这种事情。

“好吧，”她平静地说，“不管你有权无权，我得告诉你，我们是不幸福的。”

我什么也没有说，因为看到她还没说完。

她在房间里来回地踱着，慢条斯理地开始说，她的头有点儿侧着，当她走动时，她那苗条、柔软的体态轻轻摇摆着。她突然停住脚步，仰望着我。

“你不了解我的情况，是吗？”她问道。“我是哪儿人，和约翰结婚前我是谁——实际上你全不了解？好吧，我来告诉你。我要使你成为一个忏悔神父。我认为，你很仁慈，是的，我相信，你是恨仁慈的。”

不知怎么地，我并不完全象我也许应该有的那么兴高采烈。我想起辛西娅也是用大致相同的方式开始吐露她的知心事的。而且，忏悔神父应该是上了年纪的，它根本就不是一个年轻人扮演的角色。

“我的父亲是英国人，”玛丽·卡文迪什说，“可是我的母亲是个俄国人。”

“哦，”我说，“现在我懂了——”

“懂什么？”

“在你身上总有那么一种外国的——不同的——味道。”

“我相信，我的母亲是很漂亮的。我不知道，因为我从来没有看见过她。当我完全是个小孩子时，她就死了。我认为她的死是一个悲剧——她过量地误服了某种安眠药。不管怎样，我的父亲悲伤极了。不久以后，他进入驻外领事馆工作。不论他到哪儿，我都跟着他。在我二十三岁的时候，我几乎已经跑遍了全世界。那是一种非常美妙的生活——我喜爱那种生活。”

她的脸上露出微笑，她的头向后仰着。她似乎正沉浸在对过去那些欢乐时日的回忆之中。

“后来，我的父亲死了。他留下了我，很穷，我不得不去和约克郡②的几个老姑母一起住。”她突然打起颤来。“当我说，对一个象我这样成长起来的姑娘来说，那是一种死一般的生活时，你是会理解我的。那种狭窄的生活圈子，死一般单调的生活方式，几乎逼得我发疯了。”她停了一会，然后用一种不同的声调接着说：“后来我遇到了约翰·卡文迪什。”

“是吗？”

“你可以想象到，以我那些姑母的观点，这对我来说是一门很好的亲事。但是，我可以老实地说，这对我毫无意义。不，它只不过是一种使我得以逃离难以忍受的单调生活的方法而已。”

我没有吭声，过了一会，她又继读说：

“别误解我。我对他是非常诚实的。我把真相告诉了他，还说我非常爱他，而且希望以后更加爱他，但是我也告诉他，我和他并没有任何那种称之为‘相亲相爱’的感情。他表示，他对这感到很满意，于是——我们就结了婚。”

她停了很久，她的前领上聚集了几丝皱纹。她似乎在认真地回顾过去的那些日子。

“我认为——我确信——他开始是喜欢我的。但是我想，我们并不是很配的一对。几乎是马上，我们俩就疏远了。他——这对我的自尊心来说不是一件愉快的事，但这是事实——很快就对我厌倦了。”我只来得及低声说了几句表示异议的话，她就很快接下去说：“哦，是的，他是那样！不是现在才发生这种情况——现在我们是已经到了十字路口了。”

“你这是什么意思？”

她平静地回答说：

“我的意思是我不打算留在斯泰尔斯了。”

“你和约翰不打算住在这儿了？”

“约翰可能住在这儿，可是我不住了。”

“你打算离开他？”

“是的。”

“那为什么？”

她停了很久，后来终于说：

“也许——因为我要——自由！”

在他说着时，我突然幻想到那一望无边的旷野，大片的原始森林，未经开垦的处女地——对玛丽·卡文迪什来说，自由可能就意味着是这样的自然美景。片刻间，我仿佛看到她既象是一匹未经文明驯服的野马，又象是深山幽谷中一只易于受惊的小鸟。她突然抽泣起来：

“你不知道，你不知道，这个该死的地方对我来说多么象一座监狱！”

“我知道，”我说，“可是——可是别做任何轻率的事。”

“哟，轻率！”她的口气嘲笑我的谨慎。

这时，我突然说了一件事，这事我本来是可以不说的：

“你知道鲍斯坦医生被捕了吗？”

一种突然的冷漠象一个面具罩到了她的脸上，掩住了她的全部表情。

“今天早上，约翰很仁慈，拍这都向我透露了。”

“哦，你有什么想法？”我无力地问。

“什么方面？”

“关于逮捕的事？”

“我能有什么想法？很明显，他是个德国间谍；园丁们就是这样告诉约翰的。”

她的脸部和语气都是那么冷漠，毫无表情。她是关心呢还是不关心？

她走开了几步，然后摆弄着一只花瓶。

“这些花全都死了。得从新换一换。对不起，请你搬一搬，谢谢你，哈斯丁。”她从容地走过我的身旁，跨出落地长窗，冷淡地点了点头走了。

不，她确实不可能喜欢鲍斯但。没有一个女人能用如此冷淡的态度来扮演她这样的角色的。

第二天早上，波洛没有露面，也不见伦敦警察厅人员的影子。

但是，在吃中饭时，接到了一件新的证据——或者说是颇无价值的证据。我们一直徒劳地试图查明英格里桑太太临死前那个傍晚写的第四封信。由于我们的努力完全白费，对这件事我们已经放弃了，只希望有一天它自己会出现。这情况果然在通信来往中发现了。二班邮件③送来了一封法国一家音乐书籍出版商号寄来的信，通知说英格里桑太大的支票已经收到，但是很抱歉，他们没能找到某一套俄罗斯民歌丛书。这样，本想通过英格里桑太太在那个不幸的晚上的通信来解这个谜的最后希望，就不得不放弃了。”

就在喝茶前，我赶去告诉波洛这一新的令人失望的消息，但是，使我烦恼的是发现波洛又出门了。

“又去伦敦了吗？”

“噢，不，先生，他只是乘火车去塔明斯特。他说：‘去参观一位年轻女士的药房。’”

“傻瓜！”我突然喊了出来。“我告诉过他星期三她不在那儿！好吧，请告诉他明天早上去看我们，好吗？”

“当然可以，先生。”

可是，第二天，仍不见波洛的影子。我生气了。他果真用这种最傲慢的态度来对待我们。

吃过中饭，劳伦斯把我拉到一旁，问我是否打算去看波洛。

“不，我没有想到要去。如果他想来看我们，他可以上这儿来。”

“哦！”劳伦斯显得犹豫不决，在他的举止中有着某种异常的不安和激动引起了我的好奇。

“怎么啦？”找问道。“要是有什么特别要紧的事，我可以去一趟。”

“没什么太多的事，不过——好吧，如果你去的话，请你告诉他——”他放低了声音。“我想我已经找到特大号咖啡杯！”

我几乎已经忘掉波洛的那个莫明其妙的口信了，而现在，重又引起了我的好奇心。

劳伦斯不会再多说，于是我决定屈尊再一次到李斯特韦思别墅去找波洛。

这一次，我受到了微笑的接待。波洛先生在里面。我还摆架子么？我还是要摆。

波洛正坐在桌子旁边，双手捧着头。

“怎么啦？”我担心地问。“我希望你没生病吧？”

“没有，没有，没有生病。我是在考虑决定一件重大的事情。”

“是不是抓罪犯？”我开玩笑地问。

但是，使我大为吃惊的是，波洛竟然严肃地点点头。

“正象你们那位伟大的莎士比亚所说的那样，‘说还是不说：这是问题。④’”

我没有费神去纠正他这句话。

“你这是在开玩笑吧，波洛？”

“我这是最最严肃的。因为这件最严肃的事情的成败如何还悬而未决。”

“什么事？”

“一个女人的幸福，我的朋友，”他认真地说。

我完全不懂他说的是什么。

“这个时刻已经来到，”波洛若有所思地说，“而我不知道该怎么办。因为，你要知道，这是我押上的一笔大赌注。除了我，赫卡尔·波洛，没有一个人敢作这样的尝试！”说着他得意洋洋地拍拍自己的胸脯。

为了不损害他的形象，在恭敬地停了一会后，我才把劳伦斯的口信转告给他。

“啊哈！”他叫了起来。“这么说他已经找到特大号咖啡杯了。那很好。他的智力比他表现出来的要强，你那位闷闷不乐的劳伦斯先生！”

我本人对劳伦斯的智力并没有根高的评价，但是我克制着没有去反驳波洛，而是温和地责备他怎么忘掉了我告诉他的辛西娅休假的日子。”

“是啊，我老要忘记。不过，另外那位年轻的女士很和气。她为我的扫兴感到很难过，于是就非常热心地带我参观了一切。”

“啊，那好，不要紧。不过你改日得上辛西娅那儿喝茶去。”

我给他讲了那封信的事。

“这件事真遗憾。我对那封信一直怀着希望。可是不行了，没有可能了。这件事必须完全从内部来解决了。”他拍拍自己的前额。“依靠这些小小的灰白细胞，‘由它们来担当’——象你常说的那样。”接着他突然问道：

“你会鉴定指纹吗，朋友？”

“不会，”我感到相当吃惊地回答，“我知道没有两个指纹是相同的，可我的技术也就到此为止。”

“正是这样。”

他打开一只小抽屉，拿出几张照片，把它们放在桌子上。

“我已经给它们编了号：一号、二号、三号。你能给我说一说吗？”

我仔细地对这些指纹照片作了研究。

“我看出，这全都经过高度放大。我得说，一号是个男人的捐纹，姆指和食指。二号是一位女士的，它们要小得多，各方面部不一样。三号”——我停顿了一会——“象是有许多乱七八槽的捐纹，但有一个，很明显，是一号的。”

“和别的重迭的？”

“是的。”

“你确实认清了么？”

“哦。是的，它们一模一样。”

波洛点点头，小心地从我手中拿过照片，重又把它们锁进抽屉。

“我猜想，”我说，“你仍象往常一样，不打算作解释吧？”

“恰恰相反。一号是劳伦斯先生的指纹。二号是辛西娅小姐的，它们并不重要，我只是拿它们作个比较。三号较为复杂一点。”

“是么？”

“就象你所看到的，照片经过高度放大。你大概已经注意到在整张照片上布满的一种污迹，我不需要向你解说我所使用的撒粉的专门器械了。这对警务人员来说是熟知的方法，用它你能在很短的时间内获得任何物体上的指纹照片。好吧，朋友，你已经着过这些指纹——剩下来的，只要告诉你这个留有这些指纹的特别物体就行了。”

“快说下去——这实在使我激动。”

“好吧！三号照片是塔明斯特红十字医院药房的剧毒药品橱里一只小瓶子的经过高度放大的表面——这听起来好象很不可靠！”

“天哪！”我惊叫起来。”可是劳伦斯·卡文迪什的指纹怎么会留在它上面的？我们去那一天，他从来没有走近过那只毒药橱呀！”

“哦，不，他走近了！”

“不可能！我们一直都在一起。”

波洛摇摇头。

“不，我的朋友，有一会儿你们根本不在一起，要不就不需要叫劳伦斯先生出来和阳台上的你们一起了。”

“我已经把这给忘了，”我承认。“可是那只是一会儿功夫。”

“够久了。”

“够久做什么？”

波洛的微笑变得颇为不可思议。

“对于一位研究过药物的先生来说，要使之满足一种非常自然的兴趣和好奇，这已经够久了。”

我们的目光相遇了。波洛的目光愉快、暖昧。他站起身来，还哼起了小调。我疑惑地注视着他。

“波洛，”我说，“这只特别的小瓶子里装的是什么呢？”

波洛朝窗外看着。

“士的宁盐酸，”他回过头来说了一句，继续哼着小调。

“天哪！”我颇为平静地说了一句。我已不再感到惊奇，我预料到这样的回答。

“他们很少用纯士的宁盐酸——只是偶尔入药。正式用的是用在大部分药里的液体士的宁盐酸。这就是为什么从那时候以来，指纹仍得以泰然自若地留着。”

“你怎么设法拍下这张照片的？”

“我故意让我的帽子从阳台上掉了下去，”波洛简单解释说。“那个时候参观者是不允许下去的，这样，经不住我再三表示歉意，辛西娅小姐的同事只好下去为我拾了回来。”

“那未你是知道你将会找到什么的了？”

“不，根本不是，我只是从你的叙述中了解到，有可能劳伦斯先生走近过那只剧毒药品橱。而这种可能必须得到进一步证实，或者是予以排除。”

“波洛，”我说，“你的高兴并没有使我失望。这是一个很重要的发现。”

“我不知道，”波洛说。“可是有一件事给我印象很深，无疑对你也是如此。”

“是什么？”

“咳，就是和这桩案子有关的士的宁，总的说来是太多了，这是我们第三次意外地发现。英格里桑太太的补药里有士的宁。斯泰尔斯的梅司门市卖出过士的宁。现在，我们又有了更多的士的宁，为这家人家的一个成员所掌握。这么乱糟槽的；可是正如你所知道的那样，我是不喜欢混乱的。”

我还没来得及回答，另一个比利时人打开了门，探进头来。

“下面有一位女士要找哈斯丁先生。”

“一位女士？”

我一跃而起。波洛也随我走下狭窄的楼梯。玛丽·卡文迪什正站在门口。

“我刚去探望了村子里的一位老太太，”她解释说，“因为劳伦斯告诉我，你在波洛先生这里，我想我顺路来叫你一声。”

“哟！太太，”波洛说，”我想你还是赏光来探望我一次吧！”

“要是你邀请我，哪一天我来，”她微笑着答应他说。

“那好极了。要是你需要一个忏悔神父，太太，——她略为有点吃惊——“请记住，波洛神父随时听候你的吩咐。”

她盯着他看了一会，仿佛力图理解他的话中的某种更深的含义。接着，她就突然动身离去了。

“喂，波洛先生，你也愿意和我们一起去吧？”

“非常高兴，太太。”

在回斯泰尔斯的路上，玛丽·卡文迪什一直又快又兴奋地说个不停。可是，我总觉得，她在某种程度上害怕波洛的眼睛。

天气突然变了，狂风的泼辣程度几乎已象秋天。玛丽冷得有点发抖，她把自己的黑色运动服扣得更紧一点。风刮过树林，发出一种悲哀的声音，就象是个巨人在叹息。

刚走到斯泰尔斯庄园的大门口，我们立即就知道，一定出了什么事了。

多卡斯跑出来迎接我们。她一边哭着，一边伤心地绞扭着自己的双手。我发觉，其他的佣人也都挤成一团，全神贯注站在后面。

“哦，太太！哦，太太！我不知道该怎么告诉你——”

“怎么啦，多卡斯？”我焦急地问，”快告诉我们。”

“就是那些坏透了的侦探。他们把他抓走了——他们抓走了卡文迪什先生！”

“把劳伦斯抓走了？”我气吁吁地说。

我看到多卡斯的眼中露出了惊诧的神情。

“不，先生，不是劳伦斯先生——是约翰先生。”

我的背后一声惊叫，玛丽·卡文迪什沉重地倒在我的身上，而当我转身抓住她时，我看到了波洛眼中的无声的喜悦。

注释：

①J·为约翰，L.为劳伦斯英文名字的起首字母。

②英格兰北部一郡。

③当时英国寄送邮件时间分早班、二班、末班等。

④这句话借自莎士比亚的名剧《哈姆莱特》，该剧中，王子哈姆莱特常说的一句话本为：“干还是不干：这是问题。”但波洛说成了这样。