and your tie is on one side. Permit me." With a deft gesture, he
rearranged it.

"Ca y est! Now, shall we start?"

We hurried up the village, and turned in at the lodge gates.
Poirot stopped for a moment, and gazed sorrowfully over the
beautiful expanse of park, still glittering with morning dew.

"So beautiful, so beautiful, and yet, the poor family, plunged in
sorrow, prostrated with grief."

He looked at me keenly as he spoke, and I was aware that I
reddened under his prolonged gaze.

Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs.
Inglethorp's death so great? I realized that there was an
emotional lack in the atmosphere. The dead woman had not the
gift of commanding love. Her death was a shock and a distress,
but she would not be passionately regretted.

Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded his head gravely.

"No, you are right," he said, "it is not as though there was a
blood tie. She has been kind and generous to these Cavendishes,
but she was not their own mother. Blood tells--always remember
that--blood tells."

"Poirot," I said, "I wish you would tell me why you wanted to
know if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turning