Points to be noted. Had Rosalie any motive? She may have disliked Linnet Doyle and even been envious of her-but as a motive for murder that seems grossly inadequate. The evidence against her can only be convincing if we discover an adequate motive. As far as we know there is no previous knowledge or link between Rosalie Otterbourne and Linnet Doyle.

Miss Van Schuyler. The velvet stole in which pistol was wrapped belongs to Miss Van Schuyler. According to her own statement she last saw it in the observation saloon. She drew attention to its loss during the evening and a search was made for it without success.

How did the stole come into the possession of X? Did X purloin it some time early in the evening? But if so, why? Nobody could tell in advance that there was going to be a scene between Jacqueline and Simon. Did X find the stole in the saloon when he went to get the pistol from under the settee? But if so, why was it not found when the search for it was made? Did it ever leave Miss Van Schuyler's possession?

That is to say: Did Miss Van Schuyler murder Linnet Doyle? Is her accusation of Rosalie Otterbourne a deliberate lie? If she did murder her, what was her motive? Other possibilities.

Robbery as a motive. Possiblesince the pearls have disappeared and Linnet Doyle was certainly wearing them last night.

Some one with a grudge against the Ridgeway family. Possibleagain no evidence.

We know that there is a dangerous man on board-a killer. Here we have a killer and a death. May not the two be connected? But we should have to show that Linnet Doyle possessed dangerous knowledge concerning this man.

Conclusions. We can group the persons on board into two classes-those who had a possible motive or against whom there is no definite evidence, and those who, as far as we know, are free of suspicion.

Group I.

Andrew Pennington Fleetwood.

Rosalie Otterbourne.

Miss Van Schuyler.

Louise Bourget (Robbery?) Ferguson (Political?)

Group II.

Mrs. Allerton.

Tim Allerton.

Cornelia Robson.

Miss Bowers.

Dr. Bessner.

Signor Richetti.

Mrs. Otterbourne.

James Fanthorp.

Poirot pushed the paper back.

"It is very just, very exact, what you have written there." "You agree with it?" "Yes." "And now what is your contribution?" Poirot drew himself up in an important manner. "Me, I pose to myself one question! "Why was the pistol thrown overboard?" "That's all?" "At the moment, yes. Until I can arrive at a satisfactory answer to that question, there is no sense anywhere. That is-that must bthe starting point.

You will notice, my friend, that in your summary of where we stand, you have not attempted to answer that point."

Race shrugged his shoulders.

"Panic."

Poirot shook his head perplexedly.

He picked up the sodden velvet wrap from the table and smoothed it out, wet and limp, on the table. His finger traced the scorched marks and the burnt holes.

"Tell me, my friend," he said suddenly. "You are more conversant with firearms than I am. Would such a thing as this, wrapped round a pistol, make much difference in muffling the sound?"

"No, it wouldn't. Not like a silencer, for instance."

Poirot nodded. He went on.

"A man-certainly a man who had had much handling of firearms-would know that. But a woman-a woman would not know." Race looked at him curiously.

"Probably not."

"No. She would have read the detective stories where they are not always very exact as to details."

Race flicked the little pearl-handled pistol with his finger.

"This little.fellow wouldn't make much noise anyway," he said. "Just a pop, that's all. With any other noise around, ten to one you wouldn't notice it."

"Yes, I have reflected as to that."

He picked up the handkerchief and examined it.

"A man's handkerchief-but not a gentleman's handkerchief. Ce cher Woolworth, I imagine. Threepence at most."

"The sort of handkerchief a man like Fleetwood would own."

"Yes. Andrew Pennington, I notice, carries a very fine silk handkerchief."

"Fergu'son?" suggested Race.

"Possibly. As a gesture. But then it ought to be a bandana."

"Used it instead of a glove, I suppose, to hold the pistol and obviate fingerprints," Race added with slight facetiousness: "The Clue of the Blushing Handkerchief."

"Ah, yes. Quite ajeunefille colour, is it not?" He laid it down and returned to the stole, once more examining the powder marks.

"All the same," he murmured, "it is odd "

"What's that?"

Poirot said gently:

"Cette pauvre Madame Doyle. Lying there so peacefully With the little hole in her head. You remember how she looked?" Race looked at him curiously.

"You know," he said, "I've got an idea you're trying to tell me something-but I haven't the faintest idea what it is."

There was a tap on the door.

"Come in," Race called.

A steward entered.

"Excuse me, sir," he said to Poirot. "But Mr. Doyle is asking for you."

"I will come."

Poirot rose. He went out of the room and up the companion way to the promenade deck and along it to Dr. Bessner's cabin.

Simon, his face flushed and feverish, was propped up with pillows.

He looked embarrassed.

"Awfully good of you to come along, M. Poirot. Look here, there's something

I want to ask you."

"Yes?"

Simon got still redder in the face.

"It's-it's about Jackie. I want to see her. Do you think would you mind- would she mind, d'you think-if you asked her to come along here. You know I've been lying here thinking That wretched kid-she is only a kid after all and I treated her damn badly-and " He stammered to silence.

Poirot looked at him with interest.

"You desire to see Mademoiselle Jacqueline? I will fetch her." "Thanks.

Awfully good of you." Poirot went on his quest. He found Jacqueline de Bellefort sitting huddled up in a corner of the observation saloon. There was an open book on her lap but she was not reading.

Poirot said gently.

"Will you come with me, Mademoiselle? M. Doyle wants to see you." She started up. Her face flushed-then paled. She looked bewildered.

"Simon?

He wants to see me-to see me?" He found her incredulity moving.

"Will you come, Mademoiselle?" "I-yes, of course I will." She went with him in a docile fashion like a child--but like a puzzled child.

Poirot passed into the cabin.

"Here is Mademoiselle." She stepped in after him, wavered, stood still… standing there mute and dumb, her eyes fixed on Simon's face.

"Hallo, Jackie " He, too, was embarrassed. He went on: "Awfully good of you to come. I wanted to say-I mean-what I mean is-" She interrupted him then. Her words came out in a rush breathless desperate.

"Simon-I didn't kill Linnet. You know I didn't do that I-I-was mad last night.

Oh, can you ever forgive me?" Words came more easily to him now.

"Of course. That's all right! Absolutely all right! That's what I wanted to say.

Thought you might be worrying a bit, you know "

"Worrying?

A bit? Oh! Simon!"

"That's what I wanted to see you about. It's quite all right, see, old girl? You just got a bit rattled last night-a shade tight. All perfectly natural."

"Oh, Simon! I might have killed you… "

"Not you. Not with a rotten little peashooter like that…"

"And your leg! Perhaps you'll never walk again… "

"Now, look here, Jackie, don't be maudlin. As soon as we get to Assuan they're going to put the X-rays to work, and dig out that tinpot bullet and everything will be as right as rain."

Jacqueline gulped twice, then she rushed forward and knelt down by Simon's bed, burying her face and sobbing. Simon patted her awkwardly on the head. His eyes met Poirot's and with a reluctant sigh the latter left the cabin.