Lunch was over.

As they came out of the dining room, Alfred said to Pilar:

“Will you come into my room? There is something I want to talk over with you.”

He led her across the hall and into his study, shutting the door after him. The others went on

into the drawing room. Only Hercule Poirot remained in the hall looking thoughtfully at the closed

study door.

He was aware suddenly of the old butler hovering¹ uneasily near him.

Poirot said: “Yes, Tressilian, what is it?”

The old man seemed troubled. He said:

“I wanted to speak to Mr. Lee. But I don’t like to disturb him now.”

Poirot said: “Something has occurred?”

Tressilian said slowly:

“It’s such a queer thing. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Tell me,” said Hercule Poirot.

Tressilian hesitated. Then he said:

“Well, it’s this, sir. You may have noticed that each side of the front door there was a cannon²

ball. Big heavy stone things. Well, sir, one of them’s gone.”

Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows³ rose. He said; “Since when?”

“They were both there this morning, sir. I’ll take my oath on that.”

“Let me see.”

Together they went outside the front door. Poirot bent⁴ and examined the remaining cannon

ball. When he straightened himself, his face was very grave.

Tressilian quavered:

“Who’d want to steal a thing like that, sir? It doesn’t make sense.”

Poirot said: “I do not like it. I do not like it at all. . . .”

Tressilian was watching him anxiously. He said slowly:

“What’s come to the house, sir? Ever since the master was murdered it doesn’t seem like the

same place. I feel the whole time as though I was going about in a dream. I mix things up, and I

sometimes feel I can’t trust my own eyes.”

Hercule Poirot shook his head. He said:

“You are wrong. Your own eyes are just what you must trust.”

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