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"Madame," said Poirot, "I will come out into the open. I will," he smiled,

"place my cards upon the table. Your husband did not die of a fever. He died of a bullet!"

'"Oh!" she cried.

She covered her face with her hands. She rocked herself to and fro. She was in terrible distress. But somewhere, in some remote fibre of her being, she was enjoying her own emotions. Poirot was quite sure of that.

"And therefore," said Poirot in a matter-of-fact tone, "you might just as well tell me the whole story."

She uncovered her face and said:

"It wasn't in the least the way you think."

Again Poirot leaned forward again he tapped her knee.

"You misunderstand me--you misunderstand me utterly," he said. "I know very well that it was not you who shot him. It was Major Despard. But you were the cause."

"I don't know. I don't know. I suppose I was. It was all too terrible. There is a sort of fatality that pursues me."

"Ah, how true that is," cried Poirot. "How often have I not seen it? There are some women like that. Wherever they go, tragedies follow in their wake. It is not

their fault. These things happen in spite of themselves."

Mrs. Luxmore drew a deep breath.

"You understand. I see you understand. It all happened so naturally."

"You travelled together into the interior, did you not?"

"Yes. My husband was writing a book on various rare plants. Major Despard was introduced to us as a man who knew the conditions and would arrange the necessary expedition. My husband liked him very much. We started."

There was a pause. Poirot allowed it to continue for about a minute and a half and then murmured as though to himself.

"Yes, one can picture it. The winding river--the tropical night--the hum of

the insects--the strong soldierly man--the beautiful woman "

Mrs.

Luxmore sighed.

"My husband was, of course, years older than I was. I married as a mere child before I knew what I was doing "

Poirot shook his head sadly.

"I know. I know. How often does that not occur?"

"Neither of us would admit what was happening," went on Mrs. Luxmore.

"John Despard never said anything. He was the soul of honour."

"But a woman always knows," prompted Poirot.

"How right you are .... Yes, a woman knows .... But I never showed him that I knew. We were Major Despard and Mrs. Luxmore to each other right up to the end .... We were both determined to play the game." She was silent, lost in admiration of that n.o.ble att.i.tude.

"True," murmured Poirot. "One must play the cricket. As one of your poets so finely says, 'I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not cricket more.'" "Honour," corrected Mrs. Luxmore with a slight frown.

"Of course--of course--honour. 'Loved I not honour more."

"Those words might have been written for us," murmured Mrs. Luxmore. "No matter what it cost us, we were both determined never to say the fatal word. And then- "

"And then "prompted Poirot.

"That ghastly night." Mrs.

Luxmore shuddered.

"Yes?"

"I suppose they must have quarrelled--John and Timothy, I mean. I came out

of my tent .... I came out of my tent..."

"Yes--yes?"

Mrs. Luxmore's eyes were wide and dark. She was seeing the scene as though it were being repeated in front of her.

"I came out of my tent," she repeated. "John and Timothy were Oh!" she

shuddered. "I can't remember it all clearly. I came between them I said 'No--no, it isn't true? Timothy wouldn't listen. He was threatening John. John had to fire in self-defence. Ah!" She gave a cry and covered her face with her hands.

"He was dead stone dead--shot through the heart."

"A terrible moment for you, madame."

"I shall never forget it. John was n.o.ble. He was all for giving himself up. I refused to hear of it. We argued all night. 'For my sake,' I kept saying. He saw that in the end. Naturally he couldn't let me suffer. The awful publicity. Think of the headlines. Two Men and a Woman in the Jungle. Primeval Pa.s.sions.

"I put it all to John. In the end he gave in. The boys had seen and heard nothing. Timothy had been having a bout of fever. We said he had died of it. We buried him there beside the Amazon."

A deep, tortured sigh shook her form.

"And then--back to civilisation--and to part for ever."

"Was it necessary, madame?"

"Yes, yes. Timothy dead stoodbetween us just as Timothy alive had don more so. We said good-bye to each other--for ever. I meet John Despard sometimes---out in the world. We smile, we speak politely--no one would ever guess that there was anything between us. But I see in his eyes--and he in mine that we will never forget .... "

There was a long pause. Poirot paid tribute to the curtain by not breaking the silence.

Mrs. Luxmore took out a vanity case and powdered her nose the spell was broken.

"What a tragedy," said Poirot, but in a more everyday tone.

"You can see, M. Poirot," said Mrs. Luxmore earnestly, "that the truth must never be told."

"It would be painful. "

"It would be impossible. This friend, this writer--surely he would not wish to blight the life of a perfectly innocent woman?"

"Or even to hang a perfectly innocent man?" murmured Poirot.

"You see it like that? I am so glad. He was innocent. A crime pa.s.sionnel is not really a crime. And in any case it was in self-defence. He had to shoot. So you do understand, M.

Poirot, that the world must continue to think Timothy died of fever?"

Poirot murmured.

"Writers are sometimes curiously callous."

"Your friend is a woman-hater? He wants to make us suffer? But you must not allow that.

I shall not allow it. If necessary I shall take the blame on myself. I shall say I shot Timothy."

She had risen to her feet. Her head was thrown back.

Poirot also rose.

"Madame," he said as he took her hand, "such splendid self-sacrifice is unnecessary. I will do my best so that the true facts shall never be known."

A sweet womanly smile stole over Mrs. Luxmore's face. She raised her hand