II
Hercule Poirot was sitting at his neat writing desk on a pleasant May morning when hismanservant George approached him and murmured deferentially¹:
“There is a lady, sir, asking to see you.”
“What kind of a lady?” Poirot asked cautiously.
He always enjoyed the meticulous² accuracy of George’s descriptions.
“She would be aged³ between forty and fifty, I should say, sir. Untidy and somewhat artistic⁴ inappearance. Good walking shoes, brogues. A tweed coat and skirt—but a lace blouse. Somequestionable Egyptian beads⁵ and a blue chiffon scarf.”
Poirot shuddered⁷ slightly.
“I do not think,” he said, “that I wish to see her.”
“Shall I tell her, sir, that you are indisposed?”
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.
“You have already, I gather, told her that I am engaged on important business and cannot bedisturbed?”
George coughed again.
“She said, sir, that she had come up from the country specially⁸, and did not mind how long shewaited.”
Poirot sighed.
“One should never struggle against the inevitable,” he said. “If a middle-aged⁹ lady wearingsham Egyptian beads has made up her mind to see the famous Hercule Poirot, and has come upfrom the country to do so, nothing will deflect¹⁰ her. She will sit there in the hall till she gets herway. Show her in, George.”
George retreated, returning presently to announce formally:
“Mrs. Cloade.”
The figure in the worn tweeds and the floating scarf came in with a beaming face. She advancedto Poirot with an outstretched hand, all her

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