One glance at the rice pudding which succeeded the lamb at luncheon drove Stella from the table. She said in a wan voice that she really didn't feel she could, and betook herself to the house next door.

Dr Fielding had come in from his rounds when Stella arrived, and had just gone in to luncheon. He was glancing through his notebook when Stella was ushered into the room, but at sight of her he threw the book aside, and jumped up. “Stella, my dear!”

“I've come to lunch,” said Stella. “There's nothing but mutton and rice chez noun, and I can't bear it.”

He smiled. “Poor darling! Jenner, lay for Miss Matthews. Sit down, my dear, and tell me all about it. Have you had a difficult morning?”

“Ghastly,” said Stella, accepting a glass of sherry. “Enough to make one wish uncle hadn't died.”

Fielding gave her a warning look, and said: “I was afraid you'd have rather a bad time. All right, Jenner, we'll wait on ourselves.” He paused while the manservant withdrew, and then said: “Stella, be careful what you say in front of people. You don't want anyone to get the impression that you wished your uncle to die.”

“I didn't wish him to,” replied Stella. “I hadn't ever considered the possibility. He wasn't the sort of person you'd expect to die, was he?”

“Well, I'm a doctor,” said Fielding, smiling.

“You mean you did expect it? You never told me.”

“No, I didn't exactly expect it. Nor should I have told you if I had, my darling.”

Stella laid down her knife and fork. “Deryk, please tell me one thing: Do you believe uncle was poisoned?”

“No, I don't,” he answered. “But although there were no signs not compatible with death from syncope, I couldn't undertake to state definitely that he was not poisoned upon a purely superficial examination.”