velyn Hillingdon, calm and composed as usual, sat down in the chair indicated. She considered the few questions asked her, taking her time over it. Her dark, intelligent eyes looked at Weston thoughtfully.

“Yes,” she said, “I was talking to Mr. Kendal on the terrace when his wife came up the steps and told us about the murder.”

“Your husband wasn't there?”

“No, he had gone to bed.”

“Had you any special reason for your conversation with Mr. Kendal?”

Evelyn raised her finely pencilled eyebrows. It was a definite rebuke.

She said coldly: ''What a very odd question. No, there was nothing special about our conversation."

“Did you discuss the matter of his wife's health?”

Again Evelyn took her time.

“I really can't remember,” she said at last.

“Are you sure of that?”

“Sure that I can't remember? What a curious way of putting it. One talks about so many things at different times.”

“Mrs. Kendal has not been in good health lately, I understand.”

“She looked quite all right-a little tired perhaps. Of course running a place like this means a lot of worries, and she is quite inexperienced. Naturally, she gets flustered now and then.”

“Flustered.” Weston repeated the word. “That was the way you would describe it?”

“It's an old-fashioned word, perhaps, but just as good as the modern jargon we use for everything. A 'virus infection' for a bilious attack-an 'anxiety neurosis' for the minor bothers of daily life.” Her smile made Weston feel slightly ridiculous. He thought to himself that Evelyn Hillingdon was a clever woman. He looked at Daventry whose face remained unmoved and wondered what he thought.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hillingdon,” said Weston.