hall wrapped in a marvellous kimono covered with dragons.
'Oh! it's only you!'
'Mademoiselle-I am desolated!'
'I know. It did sound rude. But you see, I'm waiting for my dress to arrive. They promised-the brutes- promised faithfully!'
'Ah! if it is a matter of la toilette! There is a dance tonight, is there not?'
'Yes. We are all going on to it after the fireworks. That is, I suppose we are.' There was a sudden drop in her voice. But the next minute she was laughing.
'Never give in! That's my motto. Don't think of trouble and trouble won't come! I've got my nerve back tonight. I'm going to be gay and enjoy myself.'
There was a footfall on the stairs. Nick turned.
'Oh! here's Maggie. Maggie, here are the sleuths that are protecting me from the secret assassin. Take them into the drawing-room and let them tell you about it.'
In turn we shook hands with Maggie Buckley, and, as requested, she took us into the drawing-room. I formed an immediate favourable opinion of her.
It was, I think, her appearance of calm good sense that so attracted me. A quiet girl, pretty in the old- fashioned sense-certainly not smart. Her face was innocent of make-up and she wore a simple, rather shabby, black evening dress. She had frank blue eyes, and a pleasant slow voice.
'Nick has been telling me the most amazing things,' she said. 'Surely she must be exaggerating? Who ever would want to harm Nick? She can't have an enemy in the world.'
Incredulity showed strongly in her voice. She was looking at Poirot in a somewhat unflattering fashion. I realized that to a girl like Maggie Buckley, foreigners were always suspicious.
'Nevertheless, Miss Buckley, I assure you that it is the truth,' said Poirot quietly. She made no reply, but her face remained unbelieving.
'Nick seems quite fey tonight,' she remarked. 'I don't know what's the matter with her. She seems in the wildest spirits.'
That word-fey! It sent a shiver through me. Also, something in the intonation of her voice had set me wondering.
'Are you Scotch, Miss Buckley?' I asked, abruptly.
'My mother was Scottish,' she explained.
She viewed me, I noticed, with more approval than she viewed Poirot. I felt that my statement of the case would carry more weight with her than Poirot's would.
'Your cousin is behaving with great bravery,' I said. 'She's determined to carry on as usual.'
'It's the only way, isn't it?' said Maggie. 'I mean-whatever one's inward feelings are-it is no good making a fuss about them. That's only uncomfortable for everyone else.' She paused and then added in a soft voice: 'I'm very fond of Nick. She's been good to me always.'
We could say nothing more for at that moment Frederica Rice drifted into the room. She was wearing a gown of Madonna blue and looked very fragile and ethereal. Lazarus soon followed her and then Nick danced in. She was wearing a black frock, and round her was wrapped a marvellous old Chinese shawl of vivid lacquer red.
'Hello, people,' she said. 'Cocktails?'
We all drank, and Lazarus raised his glass to her.
'That's a marvellous shawl, Nick,' he said. 'It's an old one, isn't it?'
'Yes-brought back by Great-Great-Great-Uncle Timothy from his travels.'
'It's a beauty-a real beauty. You wouldn't find another to match it if you tried.'
'It's warm,' said Nick. 'It'll be nice when we're watching the fireworks. And it's gay. I-I hate black.'
'Yes,' said Frederica. 'I don't believe I've ever seen you in a black dress before, Nick. Why did you get it?'
'Oh! I don't know.' The girl flung aside with a petulant gesture, but I had caught a curious curl of her lips as though of pain. 'Why does one do anything?'
We went in to dinner. A mysterious manservant had appeared-hired, I presume, for the occasion. The food was indifferent. The champagne, on the other hand, was good.
'George hasn't turned up,' said Nick. 'A nuisance his having to go back to Plymouth last night. He'll get over this evening sometime or other, I expect. In time for the dance anyway. I've got a man for Maggie. Presentable, if not passionately interesting.'
A faint roaring sound drifted in through the window.
'Oh! curse that speedboat,' said Lazarus. 'I get so tired of it.'
'That's not the speedboat,' said Nick. 'That's a sea-plane.'
'I believe you're right.'
'Of course I'm right. The sound's quite different.'
'When are you going to get your Moth, Nick?'
'When I can raise the money,' laughed Nick.
'And then, I suppose you'll be off to Australia like that girl-what's her name?'
'I'd love to-'
'I admire her enormously,' said Mrs Rice, in her tired voice. 'What marvellous nerve! All by herself too.'
'I admire all these flying people,' said Lazarus. 'If Michael Seton had succeeded in his flight round the world he'd have been the hero of the day-and rightly so. A thousand pities he's come to grief. He's the kind of man England can't afford to lose.'
'He may still be all right,' said Nick.
'Hardly. It's a thousand to one against by now. Poor Mad Seton.'
'They always called him Mad Seton, didn't they?' asked Frederica. Lazarus nodded.
'He comes of rather a mad family,' he said. 'His uncle, Sir Matthew Seton, who died about a week ago-he was as mad as a hatter.'
'He was the mad millionaire who ran bird sanctuaries, wasn't he?' asked Frederica.
'Yes. Used to buy up islands. He was a great woman-hater. Some girl chucked him once, I believe, and he took to Natural History by way of consoling himself.'
'Why do you say Michael Seton is dead?' persisted Nick. 'I don't see any reason for giving up hope-yet.'
'Of course, you knew him, didn't you?' said Lazarus. 'I forgot.'
'Freddie and I met him at Le Touquet last year,' said Nick. 'He was too marvellous, wasn't he, Freddie?'
'Don't ask me, darling. He was your conquest, not mine. He took you up once, didn't he?'
'Yes-at Scarborough. It was simply too wonderful.'
'Have you done any flying, Captain Hastings?' Maggie asked of me in polite conversational tones.
I had to confess that a trip to Paris and back was the extent of my acquaintance with air travel.
Suddenly, with an exclamation, Nick sprang up.
'There's the telephone. Don't wait for me. It's getting late. And I've asked lots of people.'
She left the room. I glanced at my watch. It was just nine o'clock. Dessert was brought, and port. Poirot and Lazarus were talking Art. Pictures, Lazarus was saying, were a great drug in the market just now. They went on to discuss new ideas in furniture and decoration.
I endeavoured to do my duty by talking to Maggie Buckley, but I had to admit that the girl was heavy in hand. She answered pleasantly, but without throwing the ball back. It was uphill work.
Frederica Rice sat dreamily silent, her elbows on the table and the smoke from her cigarette curling round her fair head. She looked like a meditative angel.
It was just twenty past nine when Nick put her head round the door. 'Come out of it, all of you! The animals are coming in two by two.'
We rose obediently. Nick was busy greeting arrivals. About a dozen people had been asked. Most of them were rather uninteresting. Nick, I noticed, made a good hostess. She sank her modernisms and made everyone welcome in an old-fashioned way. Among the guests I noticed Charles Vyse.
Presently we all moved out into the garden to a place overlooking the sea and the harbour. A few chairs had been placed there for the elderly people, but most of us stood. The first rocket flamed to Heaven.
At that moment I heard a loud familiar voice, and turned my head to see Nick greeting Mr Croft.
