careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you
yourself--have you no suspicions of anybody?"

I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in
itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain.
I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.

"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly
foolish."

"Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak
your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts."

"Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd--but I suspect Miss
Howard of not telling all she knows!"

"Miss Howard?"

"Yes--you'll laugh at me----"

"Not at all. Why should I?"

"I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've
rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the
strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all,
she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an
hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the
night of the murder?"

"Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my