with an incoherent word of excuse, she hurried from the room.
We were not long left alone. A squarely-built man with a small red moustache and pince-nez came in.
“Dr. Treves,” he introduced himself. “Mrs. Templeton asked me to make her excuses to you. She’s in a very bad state, you know. Nervous strain. Worry over her husband and all that. I’ve prescribed bed and bromide. But she hopes you’ll stay and take pot luck, and I’m to do host. We’ve heard of you down here, M. Poirot, and we mean to make the most of you. Ah, here’s Micky!”
A shambling young man entered the room. He had a very round face, and foolish-looking eyebrows raised as though in perpetual surprise. He grinned awkwardly as he shook hands. This was clearly the “wanting” son.
Presently we all went in to dinner. Dr. Treves left the room—to open some wine, I think—and suddenly the boy’s physiognomy underwent a startling change. He lent forward, staring at Poirot.
“You’ve come about father,” he said, nodding his head, “I know. I know lots of things—but nobody thinks I do. Mother will be glad when father’s dead and she can marry Dr.
