"Stabbed," he said. "That's the way of it. Stabbed."

Then he shot out a question. "Any of you leave the bridge table during the evening?"

He saw four expressions break up – waver. He saw fear – comprehension – indignation – dismay – horror, but he saw nothing definitely helpful.

"Well?"

There was a pause and then Major Despard said quietly, he had risen now and was standing like a soldier on parade, his narrow intelligent face turned to Battle, "I think every one of us, at one time, or another, moved from the bridge table – either to get drinks or to put wood on the fire. I did both. When I went to the fire Shaitana was asleep in his chair."

"Asleep?"

"I thought so – yes."

"He may have been," said Battle. "Or he may have been dead then. We'll go into that presently. I'll ask you now to go into the room, next door." He turned to the quiet figure at his elbow. "Colonel Race, perhaps you'll go with them?"

Race gave a quick nod of comprehension.

"Right, Superintendent."

The four bridge players went slowly through the doorway.

Mrs. Oliver sat down in a chair at the far end of the room and began to sob quietly.

Battle took up the telephone receiver and spoke.

Then he said, "The local police will be round immediately. Orders from headquarters are that I'm to take on the case. Divisional surgeon will be here almost at once. How long should you say he'd been dead, Monsieur Poirot? I'd say well over an hour myself."

"I agree. Alas that one cannot be more exact – that one cannot say, 'This man has been dead one hour twenty-five minutes and forty seconds.'"

Battle nodded absently.

"He was sitting right in front of the fire. That makes a slight difference. Over an hour, not more than two and a half – that's what our doctor will say, I'll be bound. And nobody heard anything and nobody saw anything. Amazing! What a desperate chance to take. He might have cried out."