It was Fraser’s turn to stare.
“My holiday? The first two weeks in August.”
His face quivered suddenly. I guessed that the question had brought the loss of the girl he loved back to him.
Poirot, however, did not seem to pay much attention to the reply. He turned to Thora Grey and I heard the slight difference in his voice. It had tightened up. His question came sharp and clear.
“Mademoiselle, in the event of Lady Clarke’s death, would you have married Sir Carmichael if he had asked you?”
The girl sprang up.
“How dare you ask me such a question. It’s—it’s insulting!”
“Perhaps. But you have sworn to speak the truth. Eh bien—Yes or no?”
“Sir Carmichael was wonderfully kind to me. He treated me almost like a daughter. And that’s how I felt to him—just affectionate and grateful.”
“Pardon me, but that is not answering Yes or No, mademoiselle.”
She hesitated.
“The answer, of course, is no!”
He made no comment.
“Thank you, mademoiselle.”
He turned to Megan Barnard. The girl’s face was very pale. She was breathing hard as though braced up for an ordeal.
Poirot’s voice came out like the crack of a whiplash.
“Mademoiselle, what do you hope will be the result of my investigatio
ns? Do you want me to find out the truth—or not?”
Her head went back proudly. I was fairly sure of her answer. Megan, I knew, had a fanatical passion for truth.
Her answer came clearly—and it stupefied me.
“No!”
We all jumped. Poirot leant forward studying her face.
“Mademoiselle Megan,” he said, “you may not want the truth but—ma foi—you can speak it!”
He turned towards the door, then, recollecting, went to Mary Drower.
“Tell me, mon enfant, have you a young man?”
Mary, who had been looking apprehensive, looked startled and blushed.
“Oh, Mr. Poirot. I—I—well, I’m not sure.”
He smiled.
“Alors c’est bien, mon enfant.”
He looked round for me.