Two doors from his own compartment, the elderly American, Mrs. Hubbard, was standing talking to the sheep-like lady, who was a Swede. Mrs. Hubbard was pressing a magazine on the other.

“No, do take it, my dear,” she said. “I’ve got plenty of other things to read. My, isn’t the cold something frightful?” She nodded amicably to Poirot.

“You are most kind,” said the Swedish lady.

“Not at all. I hope you’ll sleep well and that your head will be better in the morning.”

“It is the cold only. I make now myself a cup of tea.”

“Have you got some aspirin? Are you sure now? I’ve got plenty. Well, good night, my dear.”

She turned to Poirot conversationally as the other woman departed.

“Poor creature, she’s a Swede. As far as I can make out she’s a kind of missionary. A teaching one. A nice creature, but doesn’t talk much English. She wasmost interested in what I told her about my daughter.”

Poirot, by now, knew all about Mrs. Hubbard’s daughter. Everyone on the train who could understand English did! How she and her husband were on the staff of a big American college in Smyrna, and how this was Mrs. Hubbard’s first journey to the East, and what she thought of the Turks and their slipshod ways and the condition of their roads.

The door next to them opened and the thin pale manservant stepped out. Inside, Poirot caught a glimpse of Mr. Ratchett sitting up in bed. He saw Poirot and his face changed, darkening with anger. Then the door was shut.

Mrs. Hubbard drew Poirot a little wide.

“You know, I’m dead scared of that man. Oh! not the valet-the other. His master. Master, indeed! There’s somethingwrong about that man. My daughter always says I’m very intuitive. ‘When Mamma gets a hunch, she’s dead right,’ that’s what my daughter says. And I’ve got a hunch about that man. He’s next door to me and I don’t like it. I put my grips against the communicating door last night.