Poirot stepped into the hall. The butler relieved him deftly of his hat and overcoat, then murmuredwith that deferential undertone only to be achieved by the best servants:

"Her Ladyship is expecting you, sir."

Poirot followed the butler up the soft carpeted stairs. This, without doubt, was Parsons, a verywell-trained servant, with a manner suitably devoid of emotion. At the top of the staircase heturned to the right along a corridor. He passed through a door into a little anteroom, from whichtwo more doors led. He threw open the lefthand one of these, and announced:

"M. Poirot, m'lady."

The room was not a very large one, and it was crowded with furniture and knickknacks. A woman,dressed in black, got up from a sofa and came quickly toward Poirot.

"M. Poirot," she said with outstretched hand. Her eye ran rapidly over the dandified figure. Shepaused a minute, ignoring the little man's bow over her hand, and his murmured "My Lady," andthen, releasing his hand after a sudden vigorous pressure, she exclaimed:

"I believe in small men! They are the clever ones.""Inspector Miller," murmured Poirot, "is, I think, a tall man?""He is a bumptious idiot," said Lady Astwell. "Sit down here by me, will you, M. Poirot?"She indicated the sofa and went on:

"Lily did her best to put me off sending for you, but I have not come to my time of life withoutknowing my own mind.""A rare accomplishment," said Poirot, as he followed her to the settee.

Lady Astwell settled herself comfortably among the cushions and turned so as to face him.

"Lily is a dear girl," said Lady Astwell, "but she thinks she knows everything, and as often as notin my experience those sort of people are wrong. I am not clever, M. Poirot, I never have been, butI am right where many a more stupid person is wrong. I believe in guidance. Now do you want meto tell you who is the murderer, or do you not? A woman knows, M. Poirot.""Does Miss Margrave know?""What did she tell you?" asked Lady Astwell sharply.

"She gave me the facts of the case."

"The facts? Oh, of course they are dead against Charles, but I tell you, M. Poirot, he didn't do it. Iknow he didn't!"She bent upon him an earnestness that was almost disconcerting.

"You are very positive, Lady Astwell?"

"Trefusis killed my husband, M. Poirot. I am sure of it.""Why?""Why should he kill him, do you mean, or why am I sure? I tell you I know it! I am funny aboutthose things. I made up my mind at once, and I stick to it.""Did Mr Trefusis benefit in any way by Sir Reuben's death?""Never left him a penny," returned Lady Astwell promptly. "Now that shows you dear Reubencouldn't have liked or trusted him.""Had he been with Sir Reuben long, then?"

"Close on nine years."

"That is a long time," said Poirot softly, "a very long time to remain in the employment of oneman. Yes, Mr Trefusis, he must have known his employer well."Lady Astwell stared at him.

"What are you driving at? I don't see what that has to do with it.""I was following out a little idea of my own," said Poirot. "A little idea, not interesting, perhaps,but original, on the effects of service."Lady Astwell still stared.

"You are very clever, aren't you?" she said in rather a doubtful tone. "Everybody says so."Hercule Poirot laughed.

"Perhaps you shall pay me that compliment, too, Madame, one of these days. But let us return tothe motive. Tell me now of your household, of the people who were here in the house on the dayof the tragedy.""There was Charles, of course."

"He was your husband's nephew, I understand, not yours.""Yes, Charles was the only son of Reuben's sister. She married a comparatively rich man, but oneof those crashes came - they do in the city - and he died, and his wife, too, and Charles came tolive with us. He was twenty-three at the time, and going to be a barrister. But when the troublecame, Reuben took him into his office.""He was industrious, M. Charles?"

"I like a man who is quick on the uptake," said Lady Astwell with a nod of approval. "No, that'sjust the trouble, Charles was not industrious. He was always having rows with his uncle over somemuddle or other that he had made. Not that poor Reuben was an easy man to get on with. Many'sthe time I've told him that he had forgotten what it was to be young himself. He was very differentin those days, M. Poirot."Lady Astwell heaved a sigh of reminiscence.

"Changes must come, Milady," said Poirot. "It is the law.""Still," said Lady Astwell, "he was never really rude to me. At least if he was, he was always sorryafterward - poor dear Reuben.""He was difficult, eh?" said Poirot.

"I could always manage him," said Lady Astwell with the air of a successful lion tamer. "But itwas rather awkward sometimes when he would lose his temper with the servants. There are waysof doing it, and Reuben's was not the right way.""How exactly did Sir Reuben leave his money, Lady Astwell?""Half to me - and half to Charles," replied Lady Astwell promptly. "The lawyers don't put itsimply like that, but that's what it amounts to."Poirot nodded his head.

"I see - I see," he murmured. "Now, Lady Astwell, I will demand of you that you will describe tome the household. There was yourself, and Sir Reuben's nephew, Mr Charles Leverson, and thesecretary, Mr Owen Trefusis, and there was Miss Lily Margrave. Perhaps you will tell mesomething of that young lady.""You want to know about Lily?"

"Yes, she has been with you long?"

"About a year. I have had a lot of secretary-companions, you know, but somehow or other they allgot on my nerves. Lily was different. She was tactful and full of common sense, and besides shelooks so nice. I do like to have a pretty face about me, M. Poirot. I am a funny kind of person; Itake likes and dislikes straight away. As soon as I saw that girl, I said to myself: 'She'll do.'""Did she come to you through friends, Lady Astwell?""I think she answered an advertisement. Yes - that was it.""You know something of her people, of where she comes from?""Her father and mother are out in India, I believe. I don't really know much about them, but youcan see at a glance that Lily is a lady, can't you, M. Poirot?""Oh perfectly, perfectly.""Of course," went on Lady Astwell, "I am not a lady myself. I know it, and the servants know it,but there is nothing mean-spirited about me. I can appreciate the real thing when I see it, and noone could be nicer than Lily has been to me. I look upon that girl almost as a daughter, M. Poirot,indeed I do."Poirot's right hand strayed out and straightened one or two of the objects lying on a table near him.