“Ah, yes, servants are not always too particular about that.”
Poirot was silent for a moment or two.
Anne asked timidly:
“I’m afraid I didn’t notice—whatever it is you wanted me to notice.”
Poirot smiled kindly.
“It does not matter, mon enfant. It was, indeed, an outside chance. Tell me, have you seen the good Major Despard lately?”
He saw the delicate pink colour come up in the girl’s face. She replied:
“He said he would come and see us again quite soon.”
Rhoda said impetuously:
“He didn’t do it, anyway! Anne and I are quite sure of that.”
Poirot twinkled at them.
“How fortunate—to have convinced two such charming young ladies of one’s innocence.”
“Oh, dear,” thought Rhoda. “He’s going to be French, and it does embarrass me so.”
She got up and began examining some etchings on the wall.
“These are awfully good,” she said.
“They are not bad,” said Poirot.
He hesitated, looking at Anne.
“Mademoiselle,” he said at last. “I wonder if I might ask you to do me a great favour—oh, nothing to do with the murder. This is an entirely private and personal matter.”
Anne looked a little surprised. Poirot went on speaking in a slightly embarrassed manner.
“It is, you understand, that Christmas is coming on. I have to buy presents for many nieces and grandnieces. And it is a little difficult to choose what young ladies like in this present time. My tastes, alas, are rather old-fashioned.”
“Yes?” said Anne kindly.
“Silk stockings, now—are silk stockings a welcome present to receive?”
“Yes, indeed. It’s always nice to be given stockings.”
“You relieve my mind. I will ask my favour. I have obtained some different colours. There are, I think, about fifteen or sixteen pairs. Would you be so amiable as to look through them and set aside half a dozen pairs that seem to you the most desirable?”
“Certainly I will,” said Anne, rising, with a laugh.
Poirot directed her towards a table in an alcove—a table whose contents were strangely at variance, had she but known it, with the well-known order and neatness of Hercule Poirot. There were stockings piled up in untidy heaps—some fur-lined gloves—calendars and boxes of bonbons.
“I send off my parcels very much à l’avance,” Poirot explained. “See, mademoiselle, here are the stockings. Select me, I pray of you, six pairs.”
He turned, intercepting Rhoda, who was following him.
“As for mademoiselle here, I have a little treat for her—a treat that would be no treat to you, I fancy, Mademoiselle Meredith.”
“What is it?” cried Rhoda.