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methodical mind."
I asked anxiously:
"Isn't there something that can be done - something in the way of treatment -"
He shook his head.
"Nothing doing. He's got ampoules of amyl nitrite to use when he feels an attack is coming on."
Then he said a rather curious thing.
"Got a very great respect for human life, hasn't he?"
"Yes - I suppose he has."
How often had I not heard Poirot say: "I do not approve of murder." That understatement, made so
primly, had always tickled my fancy.
Franklin was going on:
"That's the difference between us. I haven't...!"
I looked at him curiously. He inclined his head with a faint smile.
"Quite true," he said. "Since death comes anyway, what does it matter if it comes early or late? There's
so little difference."
"Then what on earth made you become a doctor if you feel like that?" I demanded with some
indignation.
"Oh, my dear fellow - doctoring isn't just a matter of dodging the ultimate end - it's a lot more - it's
improving living. If a healthy man dies, it doesn't matter - much. If an imbecile - a cretin - dies, it's a
good thing - but if by the discovery of administering the correct gland you turn your cretin into a
healthy, normal individual by correcting his thyroid deficiency, that, to my mind, matters a good deal."
I looked at him with more interest. I still felt that it would not be Dr Franklin I should call in if I had the
influenza, but I had to pay tribute to a kind of white-hot sincerity and a very real force in the man. I had
noticed a change in him since his wife's death. He had displayed few of the conventional signs of
mourning. On the contrary he seemed more alive, less absent-minded, and full of a new energy and fire.
He said abruptly, breaking into my thoughts:
"You and Judith aren't much alike, are you?"
"No, I suppose we're not."
"Is she like her mother?"
I reflected, then slowly shook my head.
"Not really. My wife was a merry, laughing creature. She wouldn't take anything seriously - and tried to
make me the same, without much success, I'm afraid."
He smiled faintly.
"No, you're rather the heavy father, aren't you? So Judith says. Judith doesn't laugh much - serious
young woman. Too much work, I expect. My fault."
He went into a brown study. I said conventionally:
"Your work must be very interesting."
"Eh?"
"I said your work must be interesting."
"Only to about half a dozen people, To everybody else it's darned dull - and they're probably right.
Anyway -" he flung his head back, his shoulders squared themselves, he suddenly looked what he was,
a powerful and virile man - "I've got my chance now! God, I could shout aloud. The Minister Institute
people let me know today. The job's still open and I've got it. I start in ten days' time."
"For Africa?"
"Yes. It's grand."
"So soon," I felt slightly shocked.
He stared at me.
"What do you mean - soon? Oh." His brow cleared. "You mean after Barbara's death? Why on earth
not? It's no good pretending, is it, that her death wasn't the greatest relief to me?"
He seemed amused by the expression on my face.
"I've not time, I'm afraid, for conventional attitudes. I fell in love with Barbara - she was a very pretty
girl - married her and fell out of love with her again in about a year, I don't think it lasted even as long
as that with her, I was a disappointment to her, of course, She thought she could influence me. She
couldn't, I'm a selfish, pigheaded sort of brute, and I do what I want to do."
"But you did refuse this job in Africa on her account," I reminded him.
"Yes. That was purely financial, though, I'd undertaken to support Barbara in the way of life she was
accustomed to. If I'd gone, it would have meant leaving her very short. But now -" he smiled a
completely frank boyish smile - "it's turned out amazingly lucky for me."
I was revolted. It is true, I suppose, that many men whose wives die are not precisely heartbroken and
everyone more or less knows the fact. But this was so blatant.
He saw my face, but did not seem put out.
"Truth," he said, "is seldom appreciated. And yet it saves a lot of time and a lot of inaccurate speech."
I said sharply:
"And it doesn't worry you at all that your wife committed suicide?"
He said thoughtfully:
"I don't really believe she did commit suicide. Most unlikely -"
"But then, what do you think happened?"
He caught me up.
"I don't know. I don't think I - want to know. Understand?"
I stared at him. His eyes were hard and cold.
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