(one) Hercule Poirot frowned. "Miss Lemon," he said. "What is it, Mister Poirot?" "There are three errors in this letter." There was something unbelievable in his voice.For Miss Lemon, that formidable, capable woman, never made a mistake.She was never sick, never tired, never irritable, never hasty, that is to say, in all practical senses she was not a woman at all.She was a machine—a perfect secretary. However, there were three mistakes in a perfectly simple letter typed by Miss Lemon this morning, and what was more, she didn't even notice them.It was as if all the planets had stopped in their orbits!

Hercule Poirot handed over the troublesome letter. Miss Lemon took the letter, and she looked at it.For the first time in his life Poirot saw her blush. "Oops," she said. "I can't figure out how—at least, I know. It's because of my sister." "Your sister?" Another shock.It never occurred to Poirot that Miss Lemon would have a sister.In all respects, Miss Lemon is so completely "machine-made"—a precision instrument, so to speak—that it seems ludicrous to think that she has feelings, or anxieties, or concerns about her family. "Your sister?" thus repeated Hercule Poirot, in disbelief.Miss Li Meng nodded sharply.

"Yes," she said. "I don't think I ever mentioned her to you. Actually her whole life is in Singapore? passed.Her husband was in the rubber business there. " Polo nodded in understanding.In his opinion, Miss Li Meng's sister should spend most of her life in Singapore. "I see," he said. "continue." Miss Lemon went on. "She was widowed four years ago. She has no children. I managed to get her a very nice little apartment for a fairly reasonable price. luxury." Miss Lemon paused and then went on: "But, actually, of course, she's alone. She's never lived in England, she doesn't have old friends or anything?

Yes, and of course she had plenty of time.Anyway, she told me about six months ago that she was considering taking the job. " ? "Work?" "The Warden, I think that's what they call it--or Matron, the housemaster of a school run by a woman of Greek descent who wanted someone to run it for her. Administer Catering, taking care of everything. It was an old-fashioned cubicle house--on Hickory Road. My sister could get good room and board, bedroom, parlour, and a separate bathroom-kitchen den--"Lemon Miss paused. Poirot coughed lightly to encourage her to continue.So far, this doesn't seem like a story of a tragic encounter.

"I'm not so sure myself, but I can see the strength of my sister's argument. She's never been idle? The people who came here are very good at management.It was a purely salaried job--not a great pay, but she didn't need it, and there was nothing strenuous to do.She had always liked young people and got along well with them, having lived in the East so long she understood racial differences and human sensitivities.For the students who lived in that house were of all nationalities; mostly English, though some Negroes, I believe. " "Naturally," said Poirot.

"After we talked it over, my sister finally accepted the job and moved in. Neither she nor I liked the school's mistress very much—Mrs. Nicoletis, a very volatile woman who sometimes Lovely and charming, and sometimes, I am sorry to say, quite the opposite--petty and impractical. My sister, however, is not one to let other people's tempers affect her." Polo nodded.From Miss Limon's dictation, he vaguely sensed the similarity between her sister and her. "So your sister took the job?" he asked. "Yes, she moved into Twenty-six Hickory Road about six months ago. Generally speaking, she likes the work there and finds it interesting."

Polo listened.So far the adventures of Miss Lemon's sister have been disappointingly flat. "But these days she's worried. Very worried." "why?" "Well, you know, Mr. Poirot, she doesn't like some of the things that happen there." "There are both male and female students there?" Polo asked delicately. "Oh no, Monsieur Poirot, I don't mean that! Difficulties of that kind are always prepared, expected! No, you know, something's missing." "Missing?" "Yes. And it's such a queer thing . . . and it's all kind of unnatural."

"You said something was missing, you mean it was stolen?" "yes." "Did you go to the police?" "No, not yet. My sister hopes it won't be necessary. She likes these young people—some of them, that is to say—and she'd rather figure things out herself." "Of course I understand that," said Polo thoughtfully. "But that doesn't mean that your concerns, I think, mirror those of your sister's." "I don't like this situation, Mister Poirot. I can't help feeling that there's something going on that I don't understand, that no normal explanation seems to cover these events - and I really can't imagine any other Explanation."

Polo nodded thoughtfully. "Not just any petty thief? Perhaps a kleptomaniac?" "I don't think so. I have studied your subject of kleptomaniacs," said honest Miss Lemon. "I have consulted the Encyclopedia Britannica, and a medical book. But I am not convinced by this explanation." Poirot was silent for a minute and a half. Did he really want to involve himself in the troubles of Miss Li Meng's sister and the misery and sorrow of an international school?But let? Miss Lemon's mistakes in typing his letters were very disturbing and inconvenient.That's why, he told himself, if he was going to get involved.

"The parsley sinks into the cream on a hot day," he murmured. "Parsley? Butter?" Miss Lemon looked surprised. "A quote from your classics," he said. "No doubt you are familiar with the adventures of Holmes." "You mean the Baker Street groups and all," said Miss Lemon. "It's still so stupid to be a big man! But, men are like this, just like they don't get tired of playing with model trains." Polo bowed gracefully. "Miss Lemon, how about you invite your sister over here for afternoon tea? I might be able to help her a little.