My father began looking at me in a queer sort of way, and then the doctor came and they talked together, shut up in father's study. I went round outside, and crept up to the window and I tried to listen. I wanted to hear what they were saying.

They were planning together-to send me away to a place where I'd be shut up!

A place where I'd have a 'course of treatment' - or something. They thought, you see, that I was crazy, and I was frightened… Because-because I wasn't sure what I'd done or what I hadn't done." "Is that when you ran away?" "No - that was later - " "Tell me." "I don't want to talk about it any more." "You'll have to let them know sooner or later where you are - " "I won't! I hate them. I hate my father as much as I hate Mary. I wish they were dead. I wish they were both dead. Then - then I think I'd be happy again." "Don't get all het up! Look here, Norma - " He paused in an embarrassed manner - "I'm not very set on marriage and all that rubbish… I mean I didn't think I'd ever do anything of that kind - oh well, not for years. One doesn't want to tie oneself up - but I think it's the best thing we could do, you know. Get married.

At a registry office or something. You'll have to say you're over twenty-one. Roll up your hair, put on some spectacles or something. Make you look a bit older.

Once we're married, your father can't do a thing! He can't send you away to what you call a 'place'. He'll be powerless." "I hate him." "You seem to hate everybody." "Only my father and Mary." "Well, after all, it's quite natural for a man to marry again." "Look what he did to my mother." "All that must have been a long time ago?" "Yes. I was only a child, but I remember.

He went away and left us. He sent me presents at Christmas - but he never came himself. I wouldn't even have known him if I'd met him in the street by the time he did come back. He didn't mean anything to me by then. I think he got my mother shut up, too. She used to go away when she was ill. I don't know where.

I don't know what was the matter with her.

Sometimes I wonder… I wonder, David.

I think, you know, there's something wrong in my head, and some day it will make me do something really bad. Like the knife." "What knife?" "It doesn't matter. Just a knife." "Well, can't you tell me what you're talking about?" "I think it had bloodstains on it - it was hidden there… under my stockings." "Do you remember hiding a knife there?" "I think so. But I can't remember what I'd done with it before that. I can't remember where I'd been… There is a whole hour gone out of that evening. A whole hour I didn't know where I'd been.

I'd been somewhere and done something." "Hush!" He hissed it quickly as the waitress approached their table. "You'll be all right. I'll look after you. Let's have something more," he said to the waitress in a loud voice, picking up the menu - "Two baked beans on toast."

Chapter Eight

HERCULE POIROT was dictating to his secretary. Miss Lemon.

"And while I much appreciate the honour you have done me, I must regretfully inform you that…" The telephone rang. Miss Lemon stretched out a hand for it. "Yes? Who did you say?" She put her hand over the receiver and said to Poirot "Mrs. Oliver." "Ah… Mrs. Oliver," said Poirot. He did not particularly want to be interrupted at this moment, but he took the receiver from Miss Lemon. " 'Allo," he said, "Hercule Poirot speaks." "Oh, M. Poirot, I'm so glad I got you!

I've found her for you!" "I beg your pardon?" "Rye found her for you. Your girl! You know, the one who's committed a murder or thinks she has. She's talking about it too, a good deal. I think she is off her head. But never mind that now. Do you want to come and get her?" "Where are you, chore Madame?" "Somewhere between St. Paul's and the Mermaid Theatre and all that. Calthorpe Street," said Mrs. Oliver, suddenly looking out of the telephone box in which she was standing. "Do you think you can get here quickly? They're in a restaurant." "They?" "Oh, she and what I suppose is the unsuitable boy friend. He is rather nice really, and he seems very fond of her.

I can't think why. People are odd. Well, I don't want to talk because I want to get back again. I followed them, you see.

I came into the restaurant and saw them there." "Aha? You have been very clever, Madame." "No, I haven't really. It was a pure accident. I mean, I walked into a small cafe place and there the girl was, just sitting there." "Ah. You had the good fortune then.

That is just as important." "And I've been sitting at the next table to them, only she's got her back to me.

And anyway I don't suppose she'd recognise me. I've done things to my hair.

Anyway, they've been talking as though they were alone in the world, and when they ordered another course - baked beans - (I can't bear baked beans, it always seems to me so funny that people should) - " "Never mind the baked beans. Go on.

You left them and came out to telephone.

Is that right?" "Yes. Because the baked beans gave me time. And I shall go back now. Or I might hang about outside. Anyway, try and get here quickly." "What is the name of this eafe?" "The Merry Shamrock - but it doesn't look very merry. In fact, it looks rather sordid, but the coffee is quite good." "Say no more. Go back. In due course, I will arrive." "Splendid," said Mrs. Oliver, and rang off.

Miss Lemon, always efficient, had preceded him to the street, and was waiting by a taxi. She asked no questions and displayed no curiosity. She did not tell Poirot how she would occupy her time whilst he was away. She did not need to tell him. She always knew what she was going to do and she was always right in what she did.

Poirot duly arrived at the corner of Calthorpe Street. He descended, paid the taxi, and looked around him. He saw The Merry Shamrock but he saw no one in its vicinity who looked at all like Mrs. Oliver, however well disguised. He walked to the end of the street and back. No Mrs.

Oliver. So either the couple in which they were interested had left the cafe and Mrs.

Oliver had gone on a shadowing expedition, or else - To answer "or else" he went to the cafe door. One could not see the inside very well from the outside, on account of steam, so he pushed the door gently open and entered. His eyes swept round it.

He saw at once the girl who had come to visit him at the breakfast table. She was sitting by herself at a table against the wall.

She was smoking a cigarette and staring in front of her. She seemed to be lost in thought. No, Poirot thought, hardly that.

There did not seem to be any thought there. She was lost in a kind of oblivion.

She was somewhere else.

He crossed the room quietly and sat down in the chair opposite her. She looked up then, and he was at least gratified to see that he was recognised.

"So we meet again. Mademoiselle," he said pleasantly. "I see you recognise me." "Yes. Yes, I do." "It is always gratifying to be recognised by a young lady one has only met once and for a very short time." She continued to look at him without speaking.

"And how did you know me, may I ask?

What made you recognise me?" "Your moustache," said Norma immediately.

"It couldn't be anyone else." He was gratified by that observation and stroked it with the pride and vanity that he was apt to display on these occasions.

"Ah yes, very true. Yes, there are not many moustaches such as mine. It is a fine one, hein?" "Yes - well, yes - I suppose it is." "Ah, you are perhaps not a connoisseur of moustaches, but I can tell you. Miss Restarick-Miss Norma Restarick, is it not? - that it is a very fine moustache." He had dwelt deliberately upon her name. She had at first looked so oblivious to everything around her, so far away, that he wondered if she would notice. She did.