of importance.
Yours truly,
MARY DELAFONTAINE.
Poirot smiled to himself. "No longer of im-portance
.... Ah--that is what we shall see. En
avant--to Charman's Green."
Rosebank was a house that seemed likely to live
up to its name, which is more than can be said for
HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?
59
most houses of its class and character.
Hercule Poirot paused as he walked up the path
to the front door and looked approvingly at the
neatly planned beds on either side of him. Rose
trees that promised a good harvest later in the
year, and at present daffodils, early tulips, blue
hyacinths--the last bed was partly edged with
shells.
Poirot murmured to himself, "How does it go,
the English rhyme the children sing?
Mistress Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With cockle-shells, and silver bells,
And pretty maids all in a row.
"Not a row, perhaps," he considered, "but
here is at least one pretty maid to make the little
rhyme come right."
The front door had opened and a neat little
maid in cap and apron was looking somewhat
dubiously at the spectacle of a heavily mustached