VII

Poirot arrived home to be informed by George that a lady was waiting to see him.

“She is—ahem—a little nervous, sir,” said George.

Since the lady had given no name Poirot was at liberty to guess. He guessed wrong, for theyoung woman who rose agitatedly from the sofa as he entered was the late Mr. Morley’s secretary,Miss Gladys Nevill.

“Oh, dear, M. Poirot. I am so sorry to worry you like this—and really I don’t know how I hadthe courage to come—I’m afraid you’ll think it very bold of me—and I’m sure I don’t want totake up your time—I know what time means to a busy professional man—but really I have beenso unhappy—only I daresay you will think it all a waste of time—”

Profiting by a long experience of the English people, Poirot suggested a cup of tea. MissNevill’s reaction was all that could be hoped for.

“Well, really, M. Poirot, that’s very kind of you. Not that it’s so very long since breakfast, butone can always do with a cup of tea, can’t one?”

Poirot, who could always do without one, assented mendaciously. George was instructed to thiseffect, and in a miraculously short time Poirot and his visitor faced each other across a tea tray.

“I must apologize to you,” said Miss Nevill, regaining her aplomb under the influence of thebeverage, “but as a matter of fact the inquest yesterday upset me a good deal.”

“I’m sure it must have done,” said Poirot kindly.

“There was no question of my giving evidence, or anything like that. But I felt somebody oughtto go with Miss Morley. Mr. Reilly was there, of course—but I meant a woman. Besides, MissMorley doesn’t like Mr. Reilly. So I thought it was my duty to go.”

“That was very kind of you,” said Poirot encouragingly.

“Oh, no, I just felt I had to. You see, I have worked for Mr. Morley for quite a number of yearsnow—and the whole thing was a great shock to me—and of course the inquest made it worse—”

“I’m afraid it must have done.”

Miss Nevill leaned forward earnestly.

“But it’s all wrong, M. Poirot. It really is all wrong.”

“What is wrong, Mademoiselle?”

“Well, it just couldn’t have happened — not the way they make out — giving a patient anoverdose in injecting the gum, I mean.”

“You think not.”

“I’m sure about it. Occasionally patients do suffer ill effects, but that is because they arephysiologically unfit subjects—their heart action isn’t normal. But I’m sure that an overdose is avery rare thing. You see practitioners get so into the habit of giving the regulation amount that it isabsolutely mechanical—they’d give the right dose automatically.”

Poirot nodded approvingly. He said:

“That is what I thought myself, yes.”

“It’s so standardized, you see. It’s not like a chemist who is making up different amounts thewhole time, or multiplying dosage where an error might creep in through inattention. Or a doctorwho writes a great many different prescriptions. But a dentist isn’t like that at all.”

Poirot asked:

“You did not ask to be allowed to make these observations in the Coroner’s Court?”

Gladys Nevill shook her head. She twisted her fingers uncertainly.

“You see,” she broke out at last, “I was afraid of—of making things worse. Of course I knowthat Mr. Morley wouldn’t do such a thing—but it might make people think that he had done itdeliberately.”

Poirot nodded.

Gladys Nevill said:

“That’s why I came to you, M. Poirot. Because with you it—it wouldn’t be official in any way.

But I do think somebody ought to know how—how unconvincing the whole thing is!”

“Nobody wants to know,” said Poirot.

She stared at him, puzzled.

Poirot said:

“I should like to know a little more about that telegram you received, summoning you away thatday.”

“Honestly, I don’t know what to think about that, M. Poirot. It does seem so queer. You see, itmust have been sent by someone who knew all about me—and Aunt—where she lived andeverything.”

“Yes, it would seem as though it must have been sent by one of your intimate friends, or bysomeone who lived in the house and knew all about you.”

“None of my friends would do such a thing, M. Poirot.”

“You have no ideas yourself on the subject?”

The girl hesitated. She said slowly:

“Just at first, when I realized that Mr. Morley had shot himself, I wondered if he could possiblyhave sent it.”

“You mean, out of consideration for you, to get you out of the way?”

The girl nodded.

“But that really seemed a fantastic idea, even if he had got the idea of suicide in his mind thatmorning. It’s really very odd. Frank—my friend, you know—was quite absurd at first about it. Heaccused me of wanting to go off for the day with somebody else—as though I would do such athing.”

“Is there somebody else?”

“No, of course there isn’t. But Frank has been so different lately—so moody and suspicious.

Really, you know, it was losing his job and not being able to get another. Just hanging about is sobad for a man. I’ve been very worried about Frank.”

“He was upset, was he not, to find you had gone away that day?”

“Yes, you see, he came round to tell me he had got a new job—a marvellous job—ten pounds aweek. And he couldn’t wait. He wanted me to know right away. And I think he wanted Mr.

Morley to know, too, because he’d been very hurt at the way Mr. Morley didn’t appreciate him,and he suspected Mr. Morley of trying to influence me against him.”

“Which was true, was it not?”

“Well, yes, it was, in a way! Of course, Frank has lost a good many jobs and he hasn’t been,perhaps, what most people would call very steady. But it will be different now. I think one can doso much by influence, don’t you, M. Poirot? If a man feels a woman expects a lot of him, he triesto live up to her ideal of him.”

Poirot sighed. But he did not argue. He had heard many hundreds of women produce that sameargument, with the same blithe belief in the redeeming power of a woman’s love. Once in athousand times, he supposed, cynically, it might be true.

He merely said:

“I should like to meet this friend of yours.”

“I’d love to have you meet him, M. Poirot. But just at present Sunday is his only free day. He’saway in the country all the week, you see.”

“Ah, on the new job. What is the job, by the way?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know, M. Poirot. Something in the secretarial line, I imagine. Or somegovernment department. I know I have to send letters to Frank’s London address and they getforwarded.”

“That is a little odd, is it not?”

“Well, I thought so—but Frank says it is often done nowadays.”

Poirot looked at her for a moment or two without speaking.

Then he said deliberately:

“Tomorrow is Sunday, is it not? Perhaps you would both give me the pleasure of lunching withme—at Logan’s Corner House? I should like to discuss this sad business with you both.”

“Well—thank you, M. Poirot. I—yes, I’m sure we’d like to lunch with you very much.”