“The little gray cells,” so often referred to by the great detective Hercule Poirot, certainly get in their fine-work in this intriguing mystery story by an exceptionally talented writer.

Alec Simpson, R. N., stepped from the platform at Newton Abbot into afirst-class compartment of the Plymouth Express. A porter followed himwith a heavy suitcase. He was about to swing it up to the rack, butthe young sailor stopped him.

“No—leave it on the seat. I’ll put it up later. Here you are.”

“Thank you, sir.” The porter, generously tipped, withdrew.

Doors banged; a stentorian voice shouted: “Plymouth only. Change forTorquay. Plymouth next stop.” Then a whistle blew, and the train drewslowly out of the station.

Lieutenant Simpson had the carriage to himself. The December air waschilly, and he pulled up the window. Then he sniffed vaguely, andfrowned. What a smell there was! Reminded him of that time inhospital, and the operation on his leg. Yes, chloroform; that was it!

He let the window down again, changing his seat to one with its backto the engine. He pulled a pipe out of his pocket and lit it. For alittle time he sat inactive, looking out into the night and smoking.

At last he roused himself, and opening the suitcase, took out somepapers and magazines, then closed the suitcase again and endeavored toshove it under the opposite seat—without success. Some hidden obstacleresisted it. He shoved harder with rising impatience, but it stillstuck out halfway into the carriage.

“Why the devil wont it go in?” he muttered, and hauling it outcompletely, he stooped down and peered under the seat....

A moment later a cry rang out into the night, and the great train cameto an unwilling halt in obedience to the imperative jerking of thecommunication-cord.

“Mon ami,” said Poirot. “You have, I know, been deeply interested inthis mystery of the Plymouth Express. Read this.”

I picked up the note he flicked across the table to me. It was briefand to the point.

Dear Sir:

I shall be obliged if you will call upon me at your earliestconvenience.

Yours faithfully,

Ebenezer Halliday.

The connection was not clear to my mind, and I looked inquiringly atPoirot. For answer he took up the newspaper and read aloud:

“‘A sensational discovery was made last night. A young naval officerreturning to Plymouth found under the seat of his compartment, thebody of a woman, stabbed through the heart. The officer at once pulledthe communication-cord, and the train was brought to a standstill. Thewoman who was about thirty years of age, and richly dressed, has notyet been identified.’

“And later we have this: ‘The woman found dead in the Plymouth Expresshas been identified as the Honorable Mrs. Rupert Carrington.’ You seenow, my friend? Or if you do not, I will add this. Mrs. RupertCarrington

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