years. Can't say I blame him. I'd feel the same.'
'And Admiral Chandler, how does he feel?'
'It's broken him up completely,' Frobisher spoke shortly.
'He is very fond of his son?'
'Wrapped up in the boy. You see, his wife was drowned in a boating accident when the boy was only ten years old. Since then he's lived for nothing but the child.'
'Was he very devoted to his wife?'
'Worshipped her. Everybody worshipped her. She was – she was one of the loveliest women I've ever known.' He paused a moment and then said jerkily, 'Care to see her portrait?'
'I should like to see it very much.'
Frobisher pushed back his chair and rose.
Aloud he said: 'Going to show M. Poirot one or two things, Charles. He's a bit of a connoisseur.'
The Admiral raised a vague hand. Frobisher tramped along the terrace and Poirot followed him. For a moment Diana's face dropped its mask of gaiety and looked an agonised question. Hugh, too, raised his head, and looked steadily at the small man with the big black moustache.
Poirot followed Frobisher into the house. It was so dim at first coming in out of the sunlight that he could hardly distinguish one article from another. But he realised that the house was full of old and beautiful things.
Colonel Frobisher led the way to the Picture Gallery. On the panelled walls hung portraits of dead and gone Chandlers. Faces stern and gay, men in court dress or in Naval uniform. Women in satin and pearls.
Finally Frobisher stopped under a portrait at the end of the gallery.
'Painted by Orpen,' he said gruffly.
They stood looking up at a tall woman, her hand on a greyhound's collar. A woman with auburn hair and an expression of radiant vitality.
'Boy's the spitting image of her,' said Frobisher. 'Don't you think so?'
'In some things, yes.'
'He hasn't got her delicacy – her femininity, of course. He's a masculine edition – but in all the essential things -' He broke off. 'Pity he inherited from the Chandlers the one thing he could well have done without…'
They were silent. There was melancholy in the air all around them – as though dead and gone Chandlers sighed for the taint that lay in their blood and which, remorselessly, from time to time, they passed on.
Hercule Poirot turned his head to look at his companion. George Frobisher was still gazing up at the beautiful woman on the wall above him.
Poirot said softly: 'You knew her well…'
Frobisher spoke jerkily.
'We were boy and girl together. I went off as a subaltern to India when she was sixteen… When I got back – she was married to Charles Chandler.'
'You knew him well also?'
'Charles is one of my oldest friends. He's my best friend – always has been.'
'Did you see much of them – after the marriage?'
'Used to spend most of my leaves here. Like a second home to me, this place. Charles and Caroline always kept my room here – ready and waiting…' He squared his shoulders, suddenly thrust his head forward pugnaciously. 'That's why I'm here now – to stand by in case I'm wanted. If Charles needs me – I'm here.'
Again the shadow of tragedy crept over them.
'And what do you think – about all this?' Poirot asked.
Frobisher stood stiffly. His brows came down over his eyes.
'What I think is, the least said the better. And to be frank, I don't see what you're doing in the business, M. Poirot. I don't see why Diana roped you in and got you down here.'
'You are aware that Diana Maberly's engagement to Hugh Chandler has been broken off?'
'Yes, I know that.'
'And you know the reason for it?'
Frobisher replied stiffly: 'I don't know anything about that. Young people manage these things between them. Not my business to butt in.'
Poirot said: 'Hugh Chandler told Diana that it was not right that they should marry, because he was going out of his mind.'
He saw the beads of perspiration break out on Frobisher's forehead.
Frobisher said: 'Have we got to talk about the damned thing? What do you think you can do? Hugh's done the right thing, poor devil. It's not his fault, it's heredity – germ plasm – brain cells… But once he knew, well, what else could he do but break the engagement? It's one of those things that just has to be done.'
'If I could be convinced of that -'
'You can take it from me.'
'But you have told me nothing.'
'I tell you I don't want to talk about it.'
'Why did Admiral Chandler force his son to leave the Navy?'
'Because it was the only thing to be done.'
'Why?'
Frobisher shook an obstinate head.
Poirot murmured softly: 'Was it to do with some sheep being killed?'
The other man said angrily: 'So you've heard about that?'
'Diana told me.'
'That girl had far better keep her mouth shut.'
'She did not think it was conclusive.'
'She doesn't know.'
'What doesn't she know?'
Unwillingly, jerkily, angrily, Frobisher spoke: 'Oh well, if you must have it… Chandler heard a noise that night. Thought it might be someone got in the house. Went out to investigate. Light in the boy's room. Chandler went in. Hugh asleep on bed – dead asleep – in his clothes. Blood on the clothes. Basin in the room full of blood. His father couldn't wake him. Next morning heard about sheep being found with their throats cut. Questioned Hugh. Boy didn't know anything about it. Didn't remember going out – and his shoes found by the side door caked in mud. Couldn't explain the blood in the basin. Couldn't explain anything. Poor devil didn't know, you understand.
'Charles came to me, talked it over. What was the best thing to be done? Then it happened again – three nights later. After that – well, you can see for yourself. The boy had got to leave the service. If he was here, under Charles' eye, Charles could watch over him. Couldn't afford to have a scandal in the Navy. Yes, it was the only thing to be done.'
Poirot asked: 'And since then?'
Frobisher said fiercely, 'I'm not answering any more questions. Don't you think Hugh knows his own business best?'
Hercule Poirot did not answer. He was always loath to admit that anyone could know better than Hercule Poirot.
III
As they came into the hall, they met Admiral Chandler coming in. He stood for a moment, a dark figure silhouetted against the bright light outside.
He said in a low, gruff voice: 'Oh there you both are. M. Poirot, I would like a word with you. Come into my study.'
Frobisher went out through the open door, and Poirot followed the Admiral. He had rather the feeling of having been summoned to the quarter-deck to give an account of himself.
The Admiral motioned Poirot to take one of the big easy chairs and himself sat down in the other. Poirot,
