“Glasmore House, Market Donnington, Northamptonshire.”
“Your profession?”
“I am a lawyer.”
“And your reasons for visiting this country?”
There was a pause. For the first time the impassive Mr. Fanthorp seemed taken aback. He said at last, almost mumbling the words, “Er—pleasure.”
“Aha!” said Poirot. “You take the holiday; that is it, yes?”
“Er—yes.”
“Very well, Monsieur Fanthorp. Will you give me a brief account of your own movements last night after the events we have just been narrating?”
“I went straight to bed.”
“That was at—?”
“Just after half-past twelve.”
“Your cabin is number twenty-two on the starboard side—the one nearest the saloon.”
“Yes.”
“I will ask you one m
ore question. Did you hear anything—anything at all—after you went to your cabin?”
Fanthorp considered.
“I turned in very quickly. I think I heard a kind of splash just as I was dropping off to sleep. Nothing else.”
“You heard a kind of splash? Near at hand?”
Fanthorp shook his head.
“Really, I couldn’t say. I was half asleep.”
“And what time would that be?”
“It might have been about one o’clock. I can’t really say.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Fanthorp. That is all.”
Poirot turned his attention to Cornelia.
“And now, Mademoiselle Robson. Your full name?”
“Cornelia Ruth. And my address is The Red House, Bellfield, Connecticut.”
“What brought you to Egypt?”
“Cousin Marie, Miss Van Schuyler, brought me along on a trip.”
“Had you ever met Madame Doyle previous to this journey?”
“No, never.”