POIROT PAYS HIS DEBTS 3 страница

``I tell you, Mary, I won't have it.''

Mary's voice came, cool and liquid:

``Have you any right to criticize my actions?''

``It will be the talk of the village! My mother was only buried on Saturday, and here you are gadding about with the fellow.''

``Oh,'' she shrugged her shoulders, ``if it is only village gossip that you mind!''

``But it isn't. I've had enough of the fellow hanging about. He's a Polish Jew, anyway.''

``A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavens the'' -- she looked at him -- ``stolid stupidity of the ordinary Englishman.''

Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that the blood rose to John's face in a crimson tide.

``Mary!''

``Well?'' Her tone did not change.

The pleading died out of his voice.

``Am I to understand that you will continue to see Bauerstein against my express wishes?''

``If I choose.''

``You defy me?''

``No, but I deny your right to criticize my actions. Have you no friends of whom I should disapprove?''

John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face.

``What do you mean?'' he said, in an unsteady voice.

``You see!'' said Mary quietly. ``You do see, don't you, that you have no right to dictate to me as to the choice of my friends?''

John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face.

``No right? Have I no right, Mary?'' he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. ``Mary -- -- ''

For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.

``None!''

She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm.

``Mary'' -- his voice was very quiet now -- ``are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?''

She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young about it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled.

She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder.

``Perhaps,'' she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone.

Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some dead branches with my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for granted that I had only just come upon the scene.

``Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?''

``He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day.''

``Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!''

``You find it so?'' I asked.

``Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box! Never know where they won't turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the country -- damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?''

``Cheer up, John!'' I said soothingly. ``It can't last for ever.''

``Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up our heads again.''

``No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject.''

``Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there's worse than that.''

``What?''

John lowered his voice:

``Have you ever thought, Hastings -- it's a nightmare to me -- who did it? I can't help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because -- because -- who could have done it? Now Inglethorp's out of the way, there's no one else; no one, I mean, except -- one of us.''

Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be so, unless -- -- -

A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. The light increased. Poirot's mysterious doings, his hints -- they all fitted in. Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, and what a relief for us all.

``No, John,'' I said, ``it isn't one of us. How could it be?''

``I know, but, still, who else is there?''

``Can't you guess?''

``No.''

I looked cautiously round, and lowered my voice.

``Dr. Bauerstein!'' I whispered.

``Impossible!''

``Not at all.''

``But what earthly interest could he have in my mother's death?''

``That I don't see,'' I confessed, ``but I'll tell you this: Poirot thinks so.''

``Poirot? Does he? How do you know?''

I told him of Poirot's intense excitement on hearing that Dr. Bauerstein had been at Styles on the fatal night, and added:

``He said twice: `That alters everything.' And I've been thinking. You know Inglethorp said he had put down the coffee in the hall? Well, it was just then that Bauerstein arrived. Isn't it possible that, as Inglethorp brought him through the hall, the doctor dropped something into the coffee in passing?''

``H'm,'' said John. ``It would have been very risky.''

``Yes, but it was possible.''

``And then, how could he know it was her coffee? No, old fellow, I don't think that will wash.''

But I had remembered something else.

``You're quite right. That wasn't how it was done. Listen.'' And I then told him of the coco sample which Poirot had taken to be analysed.

John interrupted just as I had done.

``But, look here, Bauerstein had had it analysed already?''

``Yes, yes, that's the point. I didn't see it either until now. Don't you understand? Bauerstein had it analysed -- that's just it! If Bauerstein's the murderer, nothing could be simpler than for him to substitute some ordinary coco for his sample, and send that to be tested. And of course they would find no strychnine! But no one would dream of suspecting Bauerstein, or think of taking another sample -- except Poirot,'' I added, with belated recognition.

``Yes, but what about the bitter taste that coco won't disguise?''

``Well, we've only his word for that. And there are other possibilities. He's admittedly one of the world's greatest toxicologists -- -- ''

``One of the world's greatest what? Say it again.''

``He knows more about poisons than almost anybody,'' I explained. ``Well, my idea is, that perhaps he's found some way of making strychnine tasteless. Or it may not have been strychnine at all, but some obscure drug no one has ever heard of, which produces much the same symptoms.''

``H'm, yes, that might be,'' said John. ``But look here, how could he have got at the coco? That wasn't downstairs?''

``No, it wasn't,'' I admitted reluctantly.

And then, suddenly, a dreadful possibility flashed through my mind. I hoped and prayed it would not occur to John also. I glanced sideways at him. He was frowning perplexedly, and I drew a deep breath of relief, for the terrible thought that had flashed across my mind was this: that Dr. Bauerstein might have had an accomplice.

Yet surely it could not be! Surely no woman as beautiful as Mary Cavendish could be a murderess. Yet beautiful women had been known to poison.

And suddenly I remembered that first conversation at tea on the day of my arrival, and the gleam in her eyes as she had said that poison was a woman's weapon. How agitated she had been on that fatal Tuesday evening! Had Mrs. Inglethorp discovered something between her and Bauerstein, and threatened to tell her husband? Was it to stop that denunciation that the crime had been committed?

Then I remembered that enigmatical conversation between Poirot and Evelyn Howard. Was this what they had meant? Was this the monstrous possibility that Evelyn had tried not to believe?

Yes, it all fitted in.

No wonder Miss Howard had suggested ``hushing it up.'' Now I understood that unfinished sentence of hers: ``Emily herself -- -- '' And in my heart I agreed with her. Would not Mrs. Inglethorp have preferred to go unavenged rather than have such terrible dishonour fall upon the name of Cavendish.

``There's another thing,'' said John suddenly, and the unexpected sound of his voice made me start guiltily. ``Something which makes me doubt if what you say can be true.''

``What's that?'' I asked, thankful that he had gone away from the subject of how the poison could have been introduced into the coco.

``Why, the fact that Bauerstein demanded a post-mortem. He needn't have done so. Little Wilkins would have been quite content to let it go at heart disease.''

``Yes,'' I said doubtfully. ``But we don't know. Perhaps he thought it safer in the long run. Some one might have talked afterwards. Then the Home Office might have ordered exhumation. The whole thing would have come out, then, and he would have been in an awkward position, for no one would have believed that a man of his reputation could have been deceived into calling it heart disease.''

``Yes, that's possible,'' admitted John. ``Still,'' he added, ``I'm blest if I can see what his motive could have been.''

I trembled.

``Look here,'' I said, ``I may be altogether wrong. And, remember, all this is in confidence.''

``Oh, of course -- that goes without saying.''

We had walked, as we talked, and now we passed through the little gate into the garden. Voices rose near at hand, for tea was spread out under the sycamore-tree, as it had been on the day of my arrival.

Cynthia was back from the hospital, and I placed my chair beside her, and told her of Poirot's wish to visit the dispensary.

``Of course! I'd love him to see it. He'd better come to tea there one day. I must fix it up with him. He's such a dear little man! But he is funny. He made me take the brooch out of my tie the other day, and put it in again, because he said it wasn't straight.''

I laughed.

``It's quite a mania with him.''

``Yes, isn't it?''

We were silent for a minute or two, and then, glancing in the direction of Mary Cavendish, and dropping her voice, Cynthia said:

``Mr. Hastings.''

``Yes?''

``After tea, I want to talk to you.''

Her glance at Mary had set me thinking. I fancied that between these two there existed very little sympathy. For the first time, it occurred to me to wonder about the girl's future. Mrs. Inglethorp had made no provisions of any kind for her, but I imagined that John and Mary would probably insist on her making her home with them -- at any rate until the end of the war. John, I knew, was very fond of her, and would be sorry to let her go.

John, who had gone into the house, now reappeared. His good-natured face wore an unaccustomed frown of anger.

``Confound those detectives! I can't think what they're after! They've been in every room in the house -- turning things inside out, and upside down. It really is too bad! I suppose they took advantage of our all being out. I shall go for that fellow Japp, when I next see him!''

``Lot of Paul Prys,'' grunted Miss Howard.

Lawrence opined that they had to make a show of doing something.

Mary Cavendish said nothing.

After tea, I invited Cynthia to come for a walk, and we sauntered off into the woods together.

``Well?'' I inquired, as soon as we were protected from prying eyes by the leafy screen.

With a sigh, Cynthia flung herself down, and tossed off her hat. The sunlight, piercing through the branches, turned the auburn of her hair to quivering gold.

``Mr. Hastings -- you are always so kind, and you know such a lot.''

It struck me at this moment that Cynthia was really a very charming girl! Much more charming than Mary, who never said things of that kind.

``Well?'' I asked benignantly, as she hesitated.

``I want to ask your advice. What shall I do?''

``Do?''

``Yes. You see, Aunt Emily always told me I should be provided for. I suppose she forgot, or didn't think she was likely to die -- anyway, I am not provided for! And I don't know what to do. Do you think I ought to go away from here at once?''

``Good heavens, no! They don't want to part with you, I'm sure.''

Cynthia hesitated a moment, plucking up the grass with her tiny hands. Then she said: ``Mrs. Cavendish does. She hates me.''

``Hates you?'' I cried, astonished.

Cynthia nodded.

``Yes. I don't know why, but she can't bear me; and he can't, either.''

``There I know you're wrong,'' I said warmly. ``On the contrary, John is very fond of you.''

``Oh, yes -- John. I meant Lawrence. Not, of course, that I care whether Lawrence hates me or not. Still, it's rather horrid when no one loves you, isn't it?''

``But they do, Cynthia dear,'' I said earnestly. ``I'm sure you are mistaken. Look, there is John -- and Miss Howard -- ''

Cynthia nodded rather gloomily. ``Yes, John likes me, I think, and of course Evie, for all her gruff ways, wouldn't be unkind to a fly. But Lawrence never speaks to me if he can help it, and Mary can hardly bring herself to be civil to me. She wants Evie to stay on, is begging her to, but she doesn't want me, and -- and -- I don't know what to do.'' Suddenly the poor child burst out crying.

I don't know what possessed me. Her beauty, perhaps, as she sat there, with the sunlight glinting down on her head; perhaps the sense of relief at encountering someone who so obviously could have no connection with the tragedy; perhaps honest pity for her youth and loneliness. Anyway, I leant forward, and taking her little hand, I said awkwardly:

``Marry me, Cynthia.''

Unwittingly, I had hit upon a sovereign remedy for her tears. She sat up at once, drew her hand away, and said, with some asperity:

``Don't be silly!''

I was a little annoyed.

``I'm not being silly. I am asking you to do me the honour of becoming my wife.''

To my intense surprise, Cynthia burst out laughing, and called me a ``funny dear.''

``It's perfectly sweet of you,'' she said, ``but you know you don't want to!''

``Yes, I do. I've got -- ''

``Never mind what you've got. You don't really want to -- and I don't either.''

``Well, of course, that settles it,'' I said stiffly. ``But I don't see anything to laugh at. There's nothing funny about a proposal.''

``No, indeed,'' said Cynthia. ``Somebody might accept you next time. Good-bye, you've cheered me up very much.''

And, with a final uncontrollable burst of merriment, she vanished through the trees.

Thinking over the interview, it struck me as being profoundly unsatisfactory.

It occurred to me suddenly that I would go down to the village, and look up Bauerstein. Somebody ought to be keeping an eye on the fellow. At the same time, it would be wise to allay any suspicions he might have as to his being suspected. I remembered how Poirot had relied on my diplomacy. Accordingly, I went to the little house with the ``Apartments'' card inserted in the window, where I knew he lodged, and tapped on the door.

An old woman came and opened it.

``Good afternoon,'' I said pleasantly. ``Is Dr. Bauerstein in?''

She stared at me.

``Haven't you heard?''

``Heard what?''

``About him.''

``What about him?''

``He's took.''

``Took? Dead?''

``No, took by the perlice.''

``By the police!'' I gasped. ``Do you mean they've arrested him?''

``Yes, that's it, and -- ''

I waited to hear no more, but tore up the village to find Poirot.

Chapter 10

THE ARREST

TO my extreme annoyance, Poirot was not in, and the old Belgian who answered my knock informed me that he believed he had gone to London.

I was dumbfounded. What on earth could Poirot be doing in London! Was it a sudden decision on his part, or had he already made up his mind when he parted from me a few hours earlier?

I retraced my steps to Styles in some annoyance. With Poirot away, I was uncertain how to act. Had he foreseen this arrest? Had he not, in all probability, been the cause of it? Those questions I could not resolve. But in the meantime what was I to do? Should I announce the arrest openly at Styles, or not? Though I did not acknowledge it to myself, the thought of Mary Cavendish was weighing on me. Would it not be a terrible shock to her? For the moment, I set aside utterly any suspicions of her. She could not be implicated -- otherwise I should have heard some hint of it.

Of course, there was no possibility of being able permanently to conceal Dr. Bauerstein's arrest from her. It would be announced in every newspaper on the morrow. Still, I shrank from blurting it out. If only Poirot had been accessible, I could have asked his advice. What possessed him to go posting off to London in this unaccountable way?

In spite of myself, my opinion of his sagacity was immeasurably heightened. I would never have dreamt of suspecting the doctor, had not Poirot put it into my head. Yes, decidedly, the little man was clever.

After some reflecting, I decided to take John into my confidence, and leave him to make the matter public or not, as he thought fit.

He gave vent to a prodigious whistle, as I imparted the news.

``Great Scot! You were right, then. I couldn't believe it at the time.''

``No, it is astonishing until you get used to the idea, and see how it makes everything fit in. Now, what are we to do? Of course, it will be generally known to-morrow.''

John reflected.

``Never mind,'' he said at last, ``we won't say anything at present. There is no need. As you say, it will be known soon enough.''

But to my intense surprise, on getting down early the next morning, and eagerly opening the newspapers, there was not a word about the arrest! There was a column of mere padding about ``The Styles Poisoning Case,'' but nothing further. It was rather inexplicable, but I supposed that, for some reason or other, Japp wished to keep it out of the papers. It worried me just a little, for it suggested the possibility that there might be further arrests to come.

After breakfast, I decided to go down to the village, and see if Poirot had returned yet; but, before I could start, a well-known face blocked one of the windows, and the well-known voice said:

``Bon jour, mon ami!''

``Poirot,'' I exclaimed, with relief, and seizing him by both hands, I dragged him into the room. ``I was never so glad to see anyone. Listen, I have said nothing to anybody but John. Is that right?''

``My friend,'' replied Poirot, ``I do not know what you are talking about.''

``Dr. Bauerstein's arrest, of course,'' I answered impatiently.

``Is Bauerstein arrested, then?''

``Did you not know it?''

``Not the least in the world.'' But, pausing a moment, he added: ``Still, it does not surprise me. After all, we are only four miles from the coast.''

``The coast?'' I asked, puzzled. ``What has that got to do with it?''

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

``Surely, it is obvious!''

``Not to me. No doubt I am very dense, but I cannot see what the proximity of the coast has got to do with the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp.''

``Nothing at all, of course,'' replied Poirot, smiling. ``But we were speaking of the arrest of Dr. Bauerstein.''

``Well, he is arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp -- -- ''

``What?'' cried Poirot, in apparently lively astonishment. ``Dr. Bauerstein arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp?''

``Yes.''

``Impossible! That would be too good a farce! Who told you that, my friend?''

``Well, no one exactly told me,'' I confessed. ``But he is arrested.''

``Oh, yes, very likely. But for espionage, mon ami.''

``Espionage?'' I gasped.

``Precisely.''

``Not for poisoning Mrs. Inglethorp?''

``Not unless our friend Japp has taken leave of his senses,'' replied Poirot placidly.

``But -- but I thought you thought so too?''

Poirot gave me one look, which conveyed a wondering pity, and his full sense of the utter absurdity of such an idea.

``Do you mean to say,'' I asked, slowly adapting myself to the new idea, ``that Dr. Bauerstein is a spy?''

Poirot nodded.

``Have you never suspected it?''

``It never entered my head.''

``It did not strike you as peculiar that a famous London doctor should bury himself in a little village like this, and should be in the habit of walking about at all hours of the night, fully dressed?''

``No,'' I confessed, ``I never thought of such a thing.''

``He is, of course, a German by birth,'' said Poirot thoughtfully, ``though he has practiced so long in this country that nobody thinks of him as anything but an Englishman. He was naturalized about fifteen years ago. A very clever man -- a Jew, of course.''

``The blackguard!'' I cried indignantly.

``Not at all. He is, on the contrary, a patriot. Think what he stands to lose. I admire the man myself.''

But I could not look at it in Poirot's philosophical way.

``And this is the man with whom Mrs. Cavendish has been wandering about all over the country!'' I cried indignantly.

``Yes. I should fancy he had found her very useful,'' remarked Poirot. ``So long as gossip busied itself in coupling their names together, any other vagaries of the doctor's passed unobserved.''

``Then you think he never really cared for her?'' I asked eagerly -- rather too eagerly, perhaps, under the circumstances.

``That, of course, I cannot say, but -- shall I tell you my own private opinion, Hastings?''

``Yes.''

``Well, it is this: that Mrs. Cavendish does not care, and never has cared one little jot about Dr. Bauerstein!''

``Do you really think so?'' I could not disguise my pleasure.

``I am quite sure of it. And I will tell you why.''

``Yes?''

``Because she cares for some one else, mon ami.''

``Oh!'' What did he mean? In spite of myself, an agreeable warmth spread over me. I am not a vain man where women are concerned, but I remembered certain evidences, too lightly thought of at the time, perhaps, but which certainly seemed to indicate -- --

My pleasing thoughts were interrupted by the sudden entrance of Miss Howard. She glanced round hastily to make sure there was no one else in the room, and quickly produced an old sheet of brown paper. This she handed to Poirot, murmuring as she did so the cryptic words:

``On top of the wardrobe.'' Then she hurriedly left the room.

Poirot unfolded the sheet of paper eagerly, and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. He spread it out on the table.

``Come here, Hastings. Now tell me, what is that initial -- J. or L.?''

It was a medium sized sheet of paper, rather dusty, as though it had lain by for some time. But it was the label that was attracting Poirot's attention. At the top, it bore the printed stamp of Messrs. Parkson's, the well-known theatrical costumiers, and it was addressed to `` -- (the debatable initial) Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court, Styles St. Mary, Essex.''

``It might be T., or it might be L.,'' I said, after studying the thing for a minute or two. ``It certainly isn't a J.''

``Good,'' replied Poirot, folding up the paper again. ``I, also, am of your way of thinking. It is an L., depend upon it!''

``Where did it come from?'' I asked curiously. ``Is it important?''

``Moderately so. It confirms a surmise of mine. Having deduced its existence, I set Miss Howard to search for it, and, as you see, she has been successful.''

``What did she mean by `On the top of the wardrobe'?''

``She meant,'' replied Poirot promptly, ``that she found it on top of a wardrobe.''

``A funny place for a piece of brown paper,'' I mused.

``Not at all. The top of a wardrobe is an excellent place for brown paper and cardboard boxes. I have kept them there myself. Neatly arranged, there is nothing to offend the eye.''

``Poirot,'' I asked earnestly, ``have you made up your mind about this crime?''

``Yes -- that is to say, I believe I know how it was committed.''

``Ah!''

``Unfortunately, I have no proof beyond my surmise, unless -- -- '' With sudden energy, he caught me by the arm, and whirled me down the hall, calling out in French in his excitement: ``Mademoiselle Dorcas, Mademoiselle Dorcas, un moment, s'il vous plaît!''

Dorcas, quite flurried by the noise, came hurrying out of the pantry.

``My good Dorcas, I have an idea -- a little idea -- if it should prove justified, what magnificent chance! Tell me, on Monday, not Tuesday, Dorcas, but Monday, the day before the tragedy, did anything go wrong with Mrs. Inglethorp's bell?''

Dorcas looked very surprised.

``Yes, sir, now you mention it, it did; though I don't know how you came to hear of it. A mouse, or some such, must have nibbled the wire through. The man came and put it right on Tuesday morning.''

With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot led the way back to the morning-room.

``See you, one should not ask for outside proof -- no, reason should be enough. But the flesh is weak, it is consolation to find that one is on the right track. Ah, my friend, I am like a giant refreshed. I run! I leap!''

And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside the long window.

``What is your remarkable little friend doing?'' asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. ``What is it all about?''

``Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!''

Mary laughed.

``How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?''

``I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next.''

``Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?''

``I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness.''

``I see.''

In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost sad.

It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, I thought, but I had not gone far before she stopped me authoritatively.

``You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt, Mr. Hastings, but in this case your talents are quite thrown away. Cynthia will run no risk of encountering any unkindness from me.''

I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn't thought -- But again she stopped me, and her words were so unexpected that they quite drove Cynthia, and her troubles, out of my mind.

``Mr. Hastings,'' she said, ``do you think I and my husband are happy together?''

I was considerably taken aback, and murmured something about it's not being my business to think anything of the sort.

``Well,'' she said quietly, ``whether it is your business or not, I will tell you that we are not happy.''

I said nothing, for I saw that she had not finished.

She began slowly, walking up and down the room, her head a little bent, and that slim, supple figure of hers swaying gently as she walked. She stopped suddenly, and looked up at me.

``You don't know anything about me, do you?'' she asked. ``Where I come from, who I was before I married John -- anything, in fact? Well, I will tell you. I will make a father confessor of you. You are kind, I think -- yes, I am sure you are kind.''

Somehow, I was not quite as elated as I might have been. I remembered that Cynthia had begun her confidences in much the same way. Besides, a father confessor should be elderly, it is not at all the rôle for a young man.

``My father was English,'' said Mrs. Cavendish, ``but my mother was a Russian.''

``Ah,'' I said, ``now I understand -- ''

``Understand what?''

``A hint of something foreign -- different -- that there has always been about you.''

``My mother was very beautiful, I believe. I don't know, because I never saw her. She died when I was quite a little child. I believe there was some tragedy connected with her death -- she took an overdose of some sleeping draught by mistake. However that may be, my father was broken-hearted. Shortly afterwards, he went into the Consular Service. Everywhere he went, I went with him. When I was twenty-three, I had been nearly all over the world. It was a splendid life -- I loved it.''

There was a smile on her face, and her head was thrown back. She seemed living in the memory of those old glad days.

``Then my father died. He left me very badly off. I had to go and live with some old aunts in Yorkshire.'' She shuddered. ``You will understand me when I say that it was a deadly life for a girl brought up as I had been. The narrowness, the deadly monotony of it, almost drove me mad.'' She paused a minute, and added in a different tone: ``And then I met John Cavendish.''

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