Her head went back proudly. I was fairly sure of her answer. Megan, I knew, had a fanatical passion for truth.

Her answer came clearly—and it stupefied me.

"No!"

We all jumped. Poirot leaned forward, studying her face. "Mademoiselle Megan," he said, "you may not want the truth but—ma foi—you can speak it!"

He turned towards the door, then, recollecting, went to Mary Drower.

"Tell me, mon enfant, have you a young man?"

Mary, who had been looking apprehensive, looked startled and blushed.

"Oh, Mr. Poirot, I—I—well, I'm not sure."

He smiled. "Alors c'est bien, mon enfant."

He looked round for me. "Come, Hastings, we must start for Eastbourne."

The car was waiting and soon we were driving along the coast road that leads through Pevensey to Eastbourne.

"Is it any use asking you anything, Poirot?"

"Not at this moment. Draw your own conclusions as to what I am doing."

I relapsed into silence.

Poirot, who seemed pleased with himself, hummed a little tune. As we passed through Pevensey he suggested that we stop and have a look over the castle.

As we were returning towards the car, we paused a moment to watch a ring of children—Brownies, I guessed, by their getup—who were singing a ditty in shrill, untuneful voices . . . .

"What is it that they say, Hastings? I cannot catch the words."

I listened—till I caught one refrain.

"—And catch a fox

And put him in a box

And never let him go."

"And catch a fox and put him in a box and never let him go!" repeated Poirot.

His face had gone suddenly grave and stern. "It is very terrible that, Hastings." He was silent a minute. "You hunt the fox here?"

"I don't. I've never been able to afford to hunt. And I don't think there's much hunting in this part of the world."

"I meant in England generally. A strange sport. The waiting at the covert side—then they sound the tally-ho, do they not?—and the run begins—across the country—over the hedges and ditches—and the fox he runs—and sometimes he doubles back—but the dogs—"

"Hounds!"

"—hounds are on his trail, and at last they catch him and he dies—quickly and horribly."

"I suppose it does sound cruel, but really—"

"The fox enjoys it? Do not say les [unreadable], my friend. Tout de [unreadable]—it is better that—the quick, cruel death than what those children were singing . . . . To be shut away—in a box—for ever . . . . No, it is not good, that."

He shook his head. Then he said, with a change of tone: "Tomorrow, I am to visit the man Cust," and he added to the chauffeur: "Back to London."

"Aren't you going to Eastbourne?" I cried.

"What need? I know—quite enough for my purpose."

I was not present at the interview that took place between Poirot and that strange man—Alexander Bonaparte Cust. Owing to his association with the police and the peculiar circumstances of the case, Poirot had no difficulty in obtaining a Home Office order—but that order did not extend to me, and in any case it was essential, from Poirot's point of view, that that interview should be absolutely private—the two men face to face.

He has given me, however, such a detailed account of what passed between them that I set it down with as much confidence on paper as though I had actually been present.

Mr. Cust seemed to have shrunk. His stoop was more apparent. His fingers plucked vaguely at his coat.

For some time, I gather, Poirot did not speak.

He sat and looked at the man opposite him.

The atmosphere became restful—soothing—full of infinite leisure. It must have been a dramatic moment—this meeting of the two adversaries in the long drama. In Poirot's place I should have felt the dramatic thrill.

Poirot, however, is nothing if not matter-of-fact. He was absorbed in producing a certain effect upon the man opposite him.

At last he said gently: "Do you know who I am?"

The other shook his head. "No—no—I can't say I do. Unless you are Mr. Lucas's—what do they call it?—junior. Or perhaps you come from Mr. Maynard?"

(Maynard & Cole were the defending solicitors.)

His tone was polite but not very interested. He seemed absorbed in some inner abstraction.

"I am Hercule Poirot . . . ."

Poirot said the words very gently . . . and watched for the effect.

Mr. Cust raised his head a little. "Oh, yes?"

He said it as naturally as Inspector Crome might have said it—but without the superciliousness.

Then, a minute later, he repeated his remark. "Oh, yes?" he said, and this time his tone was different—it held an awakened interest. He raised his head and looked at Poirot.

Hercule Poirot met his gaze and nodded his own head gently once or twice.

"Yes," he said. "I am the man to whom you wrote the letters."

At once the contact was broken. Mr. Cust dropped his eyes and spoke irritably and fretfully.

"I never wrote to you. Those letters weren't written by me. I've said so again and again."

"I know," said Poirot. "But if you did not write them, who did?"

"An enemy. I must have an enemy. They are all against me. The police—everyone—all against me. It's a gigantic conspiracy."

Poirot did not reply.

Mr. Cust said: "Everyone's hand has been against me—always."

"Even when you were a child?"

Mr. Cust seemed to consider. "No—no—not exactly then. My mother was very fond of me. But she was ambitious—terribly ambitious. That's why she gave me those ridiculous names. She had some absurd idea that I'd cut a figure in the world. She was always urging me to assert myself—talking about will power . . . saying anyone could be master of his fate . . . she said I could do anything!"

He was silent for a minute.

"She was quite wrong, of course. I realized that myself quite soon. I wasn't the sort of person to get on in life. I was always doing foolish things—making myself look ridiculous. And I was timid—afraid of people. I had a bad time at school—the boys found out my Christian names—they used to tease me about them. I did very badly at school—in games and work and everything."

He shook his head. "Just as well poor mother died. She'd have been disappointed . . . . Even when I was at the Commercial College I was stupid—it took me longer to learn typing and shorthand than anyone else. And yet I didn't feel stupid—if you know what I mean."

He cast a sudden appealing look at the other man.

"I know what you mean," said Poirot. "Go on."

"It was just the feeling that everybody else thought me stupid. Very paralysing. It was the same thing later in the office."

"And later still in the war?" prompted Poirot.

Mr. Cust's face lightened up suddenly. "You know," he said, "I enjoyed the war. What I had of it, that was. I felt, for the first time, a man like anybody else. We were all in the same box. I was as good as anyone else."

His smile faded.

"And then I got that wound on the head. Very slight. But they found out I had fits . . . . I'd always known, of course, that there were times when I hadn't been quite sure what I was doing. Lapses, you know. And of course, once or twice I'd fallen down. But I don't really think they ought to have discharged me for that. No, I don't think it was right."