The butler hesitated.
“I think, sir, that Sir Gervase was worried about something,” he said at last.
“Worried and depressed?”
“I shouldn’t say depressed, sir. But worried, yes.”
“Have you any idea of the cause of that worry?”
“No, sir.”
“Was it connected with any particular person, for instance?”
“I could not say at all, sir. In any case, it is only an impression of mine.”
Poirot spoke again.
“You were surprised at his suicide?”
“Very surprised, sir. It has been a terrible shock to me. I never dreamed of such a thing.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
Riddle glanced at him, then he said:
“Well, Snell, I think that is all we want to ask you. You are quite sure that there is nothing else you can tell us—no unusual incident, for instance, that has happened in the last few days?”
The butler, rising to his feet, shook his head.
“There is nothing, sir, nothing whatever.”
“Then you can go.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Moving towards the doorway, Snell drew back and stood aside. Lady Chevenix-Gore floated into the room.
She was wearing an oriental-looking garment of purple and orange silk wound tightly round her body. Her face was serene and her manner collected and calm.
“Lady Chevenix-Gore.” Major Riddle sprang to his feet.
She said:
“They told me you would like to talk to me, so I came.”
“Shall we go into another room? This must be painful for you in the extreme.”
Lady Chevenix-Gore shook her head and sat down on one of the Chippendale chairs. She murmured:
“Oh, no, what does it matter?”
“It is very good of you, Lady Chevenix-Gore, to put your feelings aside. I know what a frightful shock this must have
been and—”
She interrupted him.
“It was rather a shock at first,” she admitted. Her tone was easy and conversational. “But there is no such thing as Death, really, you know, only Change.” She added: “As a matter of fact, Gervase is standing just behind your left shoulder now. I can see him distinctly.”