“You’ll have inquiries made at the station, of course?” I said.

 

“Naturally, but I’m not over sanguine as to the result. You know what that

station is like.”

 

I did. King’s Abbot is a mere village, but its station happens to be an

important junction. Most of the big expresses stop there, and trains are

shunted, re-sorted, and made up. It has two or three public telephone boxes. At

that time of night three local trains come in close upon each other, to catch

the connection with the express for the north which comes in at 10.19 and leaves

at 10.23. The whole place is in a bustle, and the chances of one particular

person being noticed telephoning or getting into the express are very small

indeed.

 

“But why telephone at all?” demanded Melrose. “That is what I find so

extraordinary. There seems no rhyme or reason in the thing.”

 

Poirot carefully straightened a china ornament on one of the bookcases.

 

“Be sure there was a reason,” he said over his shoulder.

 

“But what reason could it be?”

 

“When we know that, we shall know everything. This case is very curious and very

interesting.”