tter.
“I can assure you,” he said, smiling, “that I never permit myself to get false impressions from anything anyone tells me. I form my own judgments.”
“Well,” said Clarke, stowing away the letter. “I’m glad I showed it to you anyway. Here come the girls. We’d better be off.”
As we left the room, Poirot called me back.
“You are determined to accompany the expedition, Hastings?”
“Oh, yes. I shouldn’t be happy staying here inactive.”
“There is activity of mind as well as body, Hastings.”
“Well, you’re better at it than I am,” I said.
“You are incontestably right, Hastings. Am I correct in supposing that you intend to be a cavalier to one of the ladies?”
“That was the idea.”
“And which lady did you propose to honour with your company?”
“Well—I—er—hadn’t considered yet.”
“What about Miss Barnard?”
“She’s rather the independent type,” I demurred.
“Miss Grey?”
“Yes. She’s better.”
“I find you, Hastings, singularly though transparently dishonest! All along you had made up your mind to spend the day with your blonde angel!”
“Oh, really, Poirot!”
“I am sorry to upset your plans, but I must request you to give your escort elsewhere.”
“Oh, all right. I think you’ve got a weakness for that Dutch doll of a girl.”
“The person you are to escort is Mary Drower—and I must request you not to leave her.”
“But, Poirot, why?”
“Because, my dear friend, her name begins with a D. We must take no chances.”
I saw the justice of his remark. At first it seemed far-fetched, but then I realized that if A B C had a fanatical hatred of Poirot, he might very well be keeping himself informed of Poirot’s movements. And in that case the elimination of Mary Drower might strike him as a very pat fourth stroke.
I promised to be faithful to my trust.
I went out leaving Poirot sitting in a chair near the window.
In front of him was a little roulette wheel. He spun it as I went out of the door and called after me:
“Rouge—that is a good omen, Hastings. The luck, it turns!”
Twenty-four
NOT FROM CAPTAIN HASTINGS’ PERSONAL NARRATIVE