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  every one of these houses of his have been let in the last

  eighteen months to people like ourselves for a merely nominal

  rent--and with the proviso that the servants should

  remain. And in every case Quentin himself--the man calling

  himself Quentin, I mean--has been there for part of

  the time as butler. That looks as though there were some-thing--jewels,

  or papers--secreted in one of Lord Lister-dale's

  houses, and the gang doesn't know which. I'm

  assuming a gang, but of course this fellow Quentin may be

  in it single-handed. There's a---"

  Mrs. St. Vincent interrupted him with a certain amount of determination:

  "Rupert! Do stop talking for one minute. You're making my head spin. Anyway, what you are saying is nonsense--

  THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY 15

  about gangs and hidden papers."

  "There's another theory," admitted Rupert. "This Quentin may be someone that Lord Listerdale has injured. The

  real butler told me a long story about a man called Samuel

  Lowe--an undergardener he was, and about the same height

  and build as Quentin himself. He'd got a grudge against

  Listerdale--"

  Mrs. St. Vincent started.

  "With no consideration for others." The words came back to her mind in their passionless, measured accents. Inadequate

  words, but what might they not stand for?

  In her absorption she hardly listened to Rupert. He made a rapid explanation of something that she did not take in,

  and went hurriedly from the room.

  Then she woke up. Where had Rupert gone? What was he going to do? She had not caught his last words. Perhaps

  he was going for the police. In that case--

  She rose abruptly and rang the bell. With his usual

  promptness, Quentin answered it.

  "You rang, madam.'?"

  "Yes. Come in, please, and shut the door."

  The butler obeyed, and Mrs. St. Vincent was silent a moment while she studied him with earnest eyes.

  She thought: "He's been kind to me--nobody knows how kind. The children wouldn't understand. This wild story

  of Rupert's may be all nonsense-- On the other hand, there

  may--yes, there may--be something in it. Why should

  one judge? One can't know. The rights and wrongs of it, I

  mean .... And I'd stake my life--yes, I would!--on his

  being a good man."

  Flushed and tremulous, she spoke.

  "Quentin, Mr. Rupert has just got back. He has been down to King's Cheviot--to a village near there---"

  She stopped, noticing the quick start he was not able to conceal.

  "He has--seen someone," she went on in measured accents.

  She thought to herself: "There--he's warned. At any rate, he's warned."

  After that first quick start, Quentin had resumed his unruffled demeanour, but his eyes were fixed on her face,

  16 Agatha Christie

  watchful and keen, with something in them she had not seen there before. They were, for the first time, the eyes of a

  man and not of a servant.

  He hesitated for a minute, then said in a voice which also had subtly changed:

  "Why do you tell me this, Mrs. St. Vincent?"

  Before she could answer, the door flew open and Rupert strode into the room. With him was a dignified middle-aged

  man with little side whiskers and the air of a benevolent

  archbishop. Quentin!

  "Here he is," said Rupert. "The real Quentin. I had him outside in the taxi. Now, Quentin, look at this man and tell

  me--is he Samuel Lowe?"

  It was for Rupert a triumphant moment. But it was short-lived; almost at once he scented something wrong. For while

  the real Quentin was looking abashed and highly uncomfortable,

  the second Quentin was smiling a broad smile of

  undisguised enjoyment.

  He slapped his embarrassed duplicate on the back.

  "It's all right, Quentin. Got to let the cat out of the bag

  sometime, I suppose. You can tell 'em who I am."

  The dignified stranger drew himself up.

  "This, sir," he announced in a reproachful tone, "is my master, Lord Listerdale, sir."

  The next minute beheld many things. First, the complete collapse of the cocksure Rupert. Before he knew what was

  happening, his mouth still open from the shock of the discovery,

  he found himself being gently manoeuvred towards

  the door, a friendly voice that was, and yet was not, familiar

  in his ear.

  "It's quite all right, my boy. No bones broken. But I want a word with your mother. Very good work of yours,

  to ferret me out like this."

  He was outside on the landing gazing at the shut door. The real Quentin was standing by his side, a gentle stream

  of explanation flowing from his lips. Inside the room Lord

  Listerdale was fronting Mrs. St. Vincent.

  "Let me explain--if I can! I've been a selfish devil all my life--the fact came home to me one day. I thought I'd

  try a little altruism for a change, and being a fantastic kind

  THE LISTERDALE MYSTERY 17

  of fool, I started my career fantastically. I'd sent subscriptions to odd things, but I felt the need of loing

  something--well, something personal. I've been sorry

  always for the class that can't beg, that must suffer in

  silence--poor gentlefolk. I have a lot of house property.

  I conceived the idea of leasing these houses to people

  who--well, needed and appreciated them. Young couples

  with their way to make, widows with sons and daughters

  starting in the world. Quentin has been more than butler

  to me; he's a friend. With his consent and assistance I

  borrowed his personality. I've always had a talent for

  acting. The idea came to me on my way to the club one

  night, and I went straight off to talk it over with Quentin.

  When I found they were making a fuss about my disappearance,

  I arranged that a letter should come from me

  in East Africa. In it, I gave full instructions to my cousin,

  M,a, urice Carfax. And--well, that's the long and short of

  it.'

  He broke off rather lamely, with an appealing glance at Mrs. St. Vincent. She stood very straight, and her eyes met

  his steadily.

  "It was a kind plan," she said. "A very unusual one, and one that does you credit. I am--most grateful. But--of

  course, you understand that we cannot stay?"

  "I expected that," he said. "Your pride won't let you accept what you'd probably style 'charity.'"

  "Isn't that what it is?" she asked steadily.

  "No,'" he answered. "Because I ask something in exchange."

  "Something?"

  "Everything." His voice rang out, the voice of one accustomed to dominate.

  "When I was twenty-three," he went on, "I married the girl I loved. She died a year later. Since then I have been

  very lonely. I have wished very much I could find a certain

  lady--the lady of my dreams .... "

  "Am I that?" she asked, very low. "I am so old--so faded."

  He laughed.

  "Old? You are younger than either of your children. Now I am old, if you like."

  18 Agatha Christie

  But her laugh rang out in turn, a soft ripple of amusement.

  "You? You arc a boy still. A boy who loves to dress

  up!"

  She held out her hands and he caught them in his.

  The Girl

  in Train

  "And that's that!" observed George Rowland ruefully, as he gazed up at the imposi
ng smoke-grimed facade of the

  building he had just quitted.

  It might be said to represent very aptly the power of Money--and Money, in the person of William Rowland,

  uncle to the aforementioned George, had just spoken its

  mind very freely. In the course of a brief ten minutes, from

  being the apple of his uncle's eye, the heir to his wealth,

  and a young man with a promising business career in front

  of him, George had suddenly become one of the vast army

  of the unemployed.

  "And in these clothes they won't even give me the dole," reflected Mr. Rowland gloomily, "and as for writing poems and selling them at the door at twopence (or 'what you care

  to give, lydy') I simply haven't got the brains."

  It was true that George embodied a veritable triumph of the tailor's art. He was exquisitely and beautifully arrayed.

  Solomon and the lilies of the field were simply not in it

  with George. But man cannot live by clothes alone--unless

  he has had some considerable training in the art--and Mr.

  Rowland was painfully aware of the fact.

  "And all because of that rotten show last night," he reflected sadly.

  The rotten show last night had been a Covent Garden Ball. Mr. Rowland had returned from it at a somewhat

  late--or rather early--hour--as a matter of fact, he could

  not strictly say that he remembered returning at all. Rogers,

  his uncle's butler, was a helpful fellow, and could doubtless

  give more details on the matter. A splitting head, a cup of

  strong tea, and an arrival at the office at five minutes to

  twelve instead of half-past nine had precipitated the catas-

  19

  20 Agatha Christie

  trophe Mr. Rowland, senior, who for twenty-four years

  had condoned and paid up as a tactful relative should, had

  suddenly abandoned these tactics and revealed hims61f in a

  totally new light. The inconsequence of George's replies

  (the young man's head was still opening and shutting like

  some mediaeval instrument of the Inquisition) had displeased

  him still further. William Rowland was nothing if not thorough.

  He cast his nephew adrift upon the world in a few

  short succinct words, and then settled down to his interrupted

  survey of some oil fields in Peru.

  George Rowland shook the dust of his uncle's office from

  off his feet, and stepped out into the City of London. George

  was a practical fellow. A good lunch, he considered, was

  essential to a review of the situation. He had it. Then he

  retraced his steps to the family mansion. Rogers opened the

  door. His well-trained face expressed no surprise at seeing

  George at this unusual hour.

  "Good afternoon, Rogers. Just pack up my things for

  me, will you? I'm leaving here."

  "yes, sir. Just for a short visit, sir?"

  "For good, Rogers. I am going to the colonies this afternoon."

  "Indeed, sir?"

  "Yes. That is, if there is a suitable boat. Do you know

  anything about the boats, Rogers?"

  "Which colony were you thinking of visiting, sir?"

  "I'm not particular. Any of 'em will do. Let's say Australia.

  What do you think of the idea, Rogers?"

  Rogers coughed discreetly.

  "Well, sir, I've certainly heard it said that there's room

  out there for anyone who really wants to work."

  Mr. Rowland gazed at him with interest and admiration.

  "Very neatly put, Rogers. Just what I was thinking myself.

  I shan't go to Australia--not today, at any rate. Fetch

  me an ABC, will you? We will select something nearer at

  hand."

  Rogers brought the required volume. George opened it

  at random and turned the pages with a rapid hand.

  "Perth--too far away--Putney Bridge--too near at hand.

  Ramsgate? I think not. Reigate also leaves me cold. Why--what

  an extraordinary thing! There's actually a place called

  THE GIRL IN THE TRAIN

  2 l

  Rowland's Castle. Ever heard of it, Rogers?"

  "I fancy, sir, that you go there from Waterloo."

  "What an extraordinary fellow you are, Rogers. You

  know everything. Well, well, Rowland's Castle! I wonder

  what sort of a place it is.'

  "Not much of a place, I should say, sir."

  "All the better; there'll be less competition. These quiet

  little country hamlets have a lot of the old feudal spirit

  knocking about. The last of the original Rowlands ought to

  meet with instant appreciation. I shouldn't wonder if they

  elected me mayor in a week."

  He shut up the ABC with a bang.

  "The die is cast. Pack me a small suitcase, will you,

  Rogers? Also my compliments to the cook, and will she

  oblige me with a loan of the cat. Dick Whittington, you

  know. When you set out to become a Lord Mayor, a cat is

  essential."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but the cat is not available at the present

  moment."

  "How is that?"

  "A family of eight, sir. Arrived this morning."

  "You don't say so. I thought its name was Peter."

  "So it is, sir. A great surprise to alt of us."

  "A case of careless christening and the deceitful sex, eh?

  Well, well, I shall have to go catless. Pack up those things

  at once, will you?"

  "Very good, sir."

  Rogers withdrew, to reappear ten minutes later.

  "Shall I call a taxi, sir?"

  "Yes, please."

  Rogers hesitated, then advanced a little farther into the

  room.

  "You'll excuse the liberty, sir, but if I was you, I shouldn't

  take too much notice of anything Mr. Rowland said this

  morning. He was at one of those city dinners last night

  and---"

  "Say no more," said George. "I understand."

  "And being inclined to gout--"

  "I know, I know. Rather a strenuous evening for you,

  Rogers, with two of us, eh? But I've set my heart on distinguishing

  myself at Rowland's Castle--the cradle of my

  22

  historic

  A wire to me

  ing paperS,

  is in

  said on

  Waterloo

  afternoon.

  would take

  guished tcair

  seemed

  carriage to

  now it

  and only the

  silence.

  And then,

  A girl

  jumped ia, 1

  ously near a r

  oh! Please hi

  George

  son why, his

  to hide irt a

  seconds the

  negligently

  soon. An

  "My niece

  George, a

  deep in the

  edition.

  himself from

  "I beg

  "My

  Acting on

  defence,

  "What the

  creditable

  The other

  fierceness.

  he had rur

  Christie

  go well in a speech, woulq ,

  liscreet advertisenent in th t it?

  at any time if a fricassee haorn

  Waterloo!--as

  Well!F vea1

  battle."

  IlagtoO

  not at its brightest and b

/>   discovered a tr !t that

  but it was an ur ih that

  train--a train that r istint

  Mr. Rowland had a firs tlbody

  t the front of.the train. Af¢ xclas

  way over the mere wa

  The platform was de, :olis

  of the egine bro] :rted

  e the

  things began to happe

  will

  wrenched open the doe Rowland

  from something } and

  :as she did so: "Oh! Hide :nril

  man of action--his not t

  etc. There is only one yrea

  the

  seat. In ablace

  and George's suiteven

  covered her retreat. Non,ese,

  ared at the carriage wi,n,c too

  here. I want my niece. low.

  was reclining in the cOer

  of the evening paper, one-tlxt] ,

  the air of a man recalairty

  fling

  he said politely.

  done with her?"

  attack is always better t.than

  tnean?" he cried, with a v

  uncle's manner.

  ,ery

  taken aback by this

  still panting a little as

  was cut en brosse, and

  he

  .

  THE GIRL IN THE TRAIN

  23

  had a moustache of the Hohenzollern persuasion. His accents were decidedly guttural, and the stiffness of his carriage

  denoted that he was more at home in uniform than

  out of it. George had the trueborn Briton's prejudice against

  foreigners--and an especial distaste for German-looking

  foreigners.

  "What the devil do you mean, sir? he repeated angrily.

  "She came in here," said the other. "I saw her. What have you done with herT"

  George flung aside the paper and thrust his head and shoulders through the window.

  "So that's it, is itT' he roared. "Blackmail. But you've tried it on the wrong person. I read all about you in the Daily Mail this morning. Here, guard, guard!"