Ever since he had joined the C.I.D., Poole had given up all forms of outdoor games and sport except golf and shooting. He had an aunt—his father’s very-much-younger sister—who lived in the New Forest, and with her he often stayed a week-end and played two or three rounds of golf at Brockenhurst. Miss Joan Poole was the only one of the detective’s family who thoroughly approved of his choice of a profession. His father, still practising in Gloucestershire but leaving an increasing amount of the work to his young partner, was always glad to see John, but he was not prepared to put himself out for him—to depart from his own hobbies or amusements—in order to provide the pig-headed young fool with suitable recreation. Joan Poole, on the other hand, was thrilled at the possession of a nephew who, she was sure, was going to become a really big man in a really interesting profession. She loved having him to stay with her and stretched her none too ample means to the uttermost in order to keep a few acres of rough shooting for him. On Saturday afternoon, therefore, Poole spent the hour and a half before it got dark in mopping up seven rabbits, a cock-pheasant and a wholly unexpected woodcock, with the help—and some hindrance—of his aunt’s enthusiastic but quite untrained cocker spaniel. After tea he settled himself into a large arm-chair in front of the fire and gave himself up to the joy of uninterrupted and uneducational reading—an hour of Mary Webb and one of Henry James. A retired Admiral and his wife came to dinner, cursed the Government (the sailor, not his lady) drank three glasses of indifferent port (again, he) and played two rubbers of still more indifferent bridge—indifferent in the sense of being unscientific, but eminently amusing—good, talking, light-hearted games with a veto on post-mortem discussion.