rather fancy that’s the girl who used to act at the Frivolity—only she called herself Zoe Carrisbrook. I remember she married some young man about town just before the war.”

“Would it interest you, Hastings, to go down and hear what our visitor’s particular trouble is? Make him all my excuses.”

Roger Havering was a man of about forty, well set up and of smart appearance.

His face, however, was haggard, and he was evidently laboring under great agitation.

“Captain Hastings? You are M. Poirot’s partner, I understand. It is imperative that he should come with me to Derbyshire today.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” I replied. “Poirot is ill in bed—influenza.”

His face fell.

“Dear me, that is a great blow to me.”

“The matter on which you want to consult him is serious?”

“My God, yes! My uncle, the best friend I have in the world, was foully murdered last night.”

“Here in London?”

“No, in Derbyshire. I was in town and received a telegram from my wife this morning. Immediately upon its receipt I determined to come round and beg M. Poirot to undertake the case.”

“If you will excuse me a minute,” I said, struck by a sudden idea.

I rushed upstairs, and in few brief words acquainted Poirot with the situation. He took any further words out of my mouth.

“I see—I see. You want to go yourself, is it not so? Well, why not? You should know my methods by now. All I ask is that you should report to me fully every day, and follow implicitly any instructions I may wire you.”

To this I willingly agreed, and an hour later I was sitting opposite Mr. Havering in a first-class carriage on the Midland Railway, speeding rapidly away from London.

“To begin with, Captain Hastings, you must understand that Hunter’s Lodge, where we are going, and where the tragedy took place, is only a small shooting-box in the heart of the Derbyshire moors. Our real home is near 

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