Poirot rushed out, returning quickly.
"There is no one there."
"Isn't there, sir?" said the parlourmaid weakly. "Oh, it did give me a start!"
"But why?"
She dropped her voice to a whisper.
"I thought—I thought it was the master—it looked like 'im."
I saw Mrs. Maltravers give a terrified start, and my mind flew to the old superstition that a suicide cannot rest. She thought of it too, I am sure, for a minute later, she caught Poirot's arm with a scream.
"Didn't you hear that? Those three taps on the window? That's how he always used to tap when he passed round the house."
"The ivy," I cried. "It was the ivy against the pane."
But a sort of terror was gaining on us all. The parlourmaid was obviously unstrung, and when the meal was over Mrs. Maltravers besought Poirot not to go at once. She was clearly terrified to be left alone. We sat in the little morning-room. The wind was getting up, and moaning round the house in an eerie fashion. Twice the door of the room came unlatched and the door
