"I should have thought myself that it would not have been a bad plan," observed Knighton.
"You are wrong," said Poirot; "in these matters one needs not energy but finesse. At the tennis one meets every one. That is so important. Ah, there is Mr. Kettering."
Derek came abruptly up to them. He looked reckless and angry, as though something had arisen to upset him. He and Knighton greeted each other with some frigidity. Poirot alone seemed unconscious of any sense of strain, and chatted pleasantly in a laudable attempt to put every one at their ease. He paid little compliments.
"It is amazing, M. Kettering, how well you speak the French," he observed—"so well that you could be taken for a Frenchman if you chose. That is a very rare accomplishment among Englishmen."
"I wish I did," said Katherine. "I am only too well aware that my French is of a painfully British order."
They reached their seats and sat down, and almost immediately Knighton perceived his employer signalling to him from the other end of the court, and went off to speak to him.
"Me, I approve of that young man," said Poirot, sending a beaming smile after the departing secretary; "and you. Mademoiselle?"
"I like him very much."
"And you, M. Kettering?"
Some quick rejoinder was springing to Derek's lips, but he checked it as though something in the little Bel-
