While the light lasts

The wall was growing up all around him now - "the curtain soft as silk," the curtain wrapping him round, stifling him a little, but so soft, so sweet! Now they were drifting together, at peace, out on the crystal sea. The wall was very high now, shutting out all those other things - those dangerous, disturbing things that hurt - that always hurt. Out on the sea of crystal, the golden apple between their hands.

The light faded from Jane's picture.

THE MYSTERY OF THE BAGHDAD CHESTThe words made a catchy headline, and I said as much to my friend, Hercule Poirot. I knew none of the parties. My interest was merely the dispassionate one of the man in the street. Poirot agreed."Yes, it has a flavor of the Oriental, of the mysterious. The chest may very well have been a sham Jacobean one from the Tottenham Court Road; none the less the reporter who thought of naming it the Baghdad Chest was happily inspired. The word 'mystery' is also thoughtfully placed in juxtaposition, though I understand there is very little mystery about the case.""Exactly. It is all rather horrible and macabre, but it is not mysterious.""Horrible and macabre," repeated Poirot thoughtfully."The whole idea is revolting," I said, rising to my feet and pacing up and down the room. "The murderer kills this man - his friend - shoves him into the chest, and half an hour later is dancing in that same room with the wife of his victim. Think! If she had imagined for one moment -""True," said Poirot thoughtfully. "That much-vaunted possession, a woman's intuition - it does not seem to have been working.""The party seems to have gone off very merrily,'' I said with a slight shiver. "And all that time, as they danced and played poker, there was a dead man in the room with them. One could write a play about such an idea.""It has been done," said Poirot. "But console yourself, Hastings," he added kindly. "Because a theme has been used once, there is no reason why it should not be used again. Compose your drama."I had picked up the paper and was studying the rather blurred reproduction of a photograph."She must be a beautiful woman," I said slowly. "Even from this, one gets an idea."Below the picture ran the inscription:

A recent portrait of Mrs. Clayton,

the wife of the murdered man