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 insist on coming with us tonight. I only pray that she may be in time. Ah!” A cry of absolute terror floated out on to the night as the girl disappeared through the right-hand window; then in Cinderella’s clear tones came the words: “No, you don’t! I’ve got you—and my wrists are just like steel.” At the same moment the door of our prison was opened cautiously by Françoise. Poirot brushed her aside unceremoniously and rushed down the passage to where the other maids were grouped round the further door. “It’s locked on the inside, monsieur.” There was the sound of a heavy fall within. After a moment or two the key turned and the door swung slowly open. Cinderella, very pale, beckoned us in. “She is safe?” demanded Poirot. “Yes, I was just in time. She was exhausted.” Mrs. Renauld was half sitting, half lying on the bed. She was gasping for breath. “Nearly strangled me,” she murmured painfully. The girl picked up something from the floor and handed it to Poirot. It was a rolled up ladder of silk rope, very fine but quite strong. “A getaway,” said Poirot. “By the window, whilst we were battering at the door. Where is—the other?” The girl stood aside a little and pointed. On the ground lay a figure wrapped in some dark material a fold of which hid the face. “Dead?” She nodded. “I think so.” “Head must have struck the marble fender.” “But who is it?” I cried. “The murderer of M. Renauld, Hastings. And the would-be murderer of Madame Renauld.” Puzzled and uncomprehending, I knelt down, and lifting the fold of cloth, looked into the dead beautiful face of Marthe Daubreuil! 28 Journey’s End