“I should like, you understand, to question her.”
“Oh, yes.”
Again a flicker of amusement.
Poirot rose and bowed.
“Madame,” he said. “You have my complete admiration.”
Mrs. Vanderlyn for once seemed a trifle taken aback.
“Oh, M. Poirot, how nice of you, but why?”
“You are, madame, so perfectly armoured, so completely sure of yourself.”
Mrs. Vanderlyn laughed a little uncertainly.
“Now I wonder,” she said, “if I am to take that as a compliment?”
Poirot said:
“It is, perhaps, a warning—not to treat life with arrogance.”
Mrs. Vanderlyn laughed with more assurance. She got up and held out a hand.
“Dear M. Poirot, I do wish you all success. Thank you for all the charming things you have said to me.”
She went out. Poirot murmured to himself:
“You wish me success, do you? Ah, but you are very sure I am not going to meet with success! Yes, you are very sure indeed. That, it annoys me very much.”
With a certain petulance, he pulled the bell and asked that Mademoiselle Leonie might be sent to him.
His eyes roamed over her appreciatively as she stood hestiating in the doorway, demure in her black dress with her neatly parted black waves of hair and her modestly-dropped eyelids. He nodded slow approval.
“Come in, Mademoiselle Leonie,” he said. “Do not be afraid.”
She came in and stood demurely before him.
“Do you know,” said Poirot with a sudden change of tone, “that I find you very good to look at.”
Leonie responded promptly. She flashed him a glance out of the corner of her eyes and murmured softly:
“Monsieur is very kind.”
“Figure to yourself,” said Poirot. “I demand of M. Carlile whether you are or not good-looking and he replies that he does not know!”
Leonie cocked her chin up contemptuously.
“That image!”
“That describes him very well.”
“I do not believe he has ever looked at a girl in his life, that one.”
“Probably not. A pity. He has missed a lot. But there are others in this house who are more appreciative, is it not so?”
“Really, I do not know what monsieur means.”