“I went there this morning,” said Flora. “I heard from the servants that Ralph

was staying there——”

 

I interrupted her.

 

“You had no idea that he was in King’s Abbot?”

 

“No. I was astounded. I couldn’t understand it. I went there and asked for him.

They told me, what I suppose they told you last night, that he went out at about

nine o’clock yesterday evening—and—and never came back.”

 

Her eyes met mine defiantly, and as though answering something in my look, she

burst out:—

 

“Well, why shouldn’t he? He might have gone—anywhere. He may even have gone back

to London.”

 

“Leaving his luggage behind?” I asked gently.

 

Flora stamped her foot.

 

“I don’t care. There must be a simple explanation.”

 

“And that’s why you want to go to Hercule Poirot? Isn’t it better to leave