“I do not expect anything to happen for at least an hour, probably two hours, but the—”
But his words were interrupted by a long thin drawn cry:
“Help!”
A light flashed up in the second floor room on the right hand side of the house. The cry came from there. And even as we watched there came a shadow on the blind as of two people struggling.
“Mille tonnerres!” cried Poirot. “She must have changed her room!”
Dashing forward, he battered wildly on the front door. Then rushing to the tree in the flower-bed, he swarmed up it with the agility of a cat. I followed him, as with a bound he sprang in through the open window. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Dulcie reaching the branch behind me.
“Take care,” I exclaimed.
“Take care of your grandmother!” retorted the girl. “This is child’s play to me.”
Poirot had rushed through the empty room and was pounding on the door leading into the corridor.
“Locked and bolted on the outside,” he growled. “And it will take time to burst it open.”
The cries for help were getting noticeably fainter. I saw despair in Poirot’s eyes. He and I together put our shoulders to the door.
Cinderella’s voice, calm and dispassionate, came from the window:
“You’ll be too late, I guess I’m the only one who can do anything.”
Before I could move a hand to stop her, she appeared to leap upward into space. I rushed and looked out. To my horror, I saw her hanging by her hands from the roof, propelling herself along by jerks in the direction of the lighted window.
“Good heavens! She’ll be killed,” I cried.
“You forget. She’s a professional acrobat, Hastings. It was the providence of the good God that made her in-
