“Yes, madame, they were worth a good deal of money.”
“I see.”
There was a pause, and then Poirot said:
“What about your book, madame?”
“My book?” She raised bewildered eyes to him.
“Yes, I understand Mrs. Vanderlyn to say that some time after you three ladies had retired you went down again to fetch a book.”
“Yes, of course, so I did.”
“So that, as a matter of fact, you did not go straight to bed when you went upstairs? You returned to the drawing room?”
“Yes, that is true. I had forgotten.”
“While you were in the drawing room, did you hear someone scream?”
“No—yes—I don’t think so.”
“Surely, madame. You could not have failed to hear it in the drawing room.”
Lady Julia flung her head back and said firmly:
“I heard nothing.”
Poirot raised his eyebrows, but did not reply.
The silence grew uncomfortable. Lady Julia asked abruptly:
“What is being done?”
“Being done? I do not understand you, madame.”
“I mean about the robbery. Surely the police must be doing something.”
Poirot shook his head.
“The police have not been called in. I am in charge.”
She stared at him, her restless haggard face sharpened and tense. Her eyes, dark and searching, sought to pierce his impassivity.
They fell at last—defeated.
“You cannot tell me what is being done?”
“I can only assure you, madame, that I am leaving no stone unturned.”
“To catch the thief—or to—recover the papers?”
“The recovery of the papers is the main thing, madame.”
Her manner changed. It became bored, listless.
“Yes,” she said indifferently. “I suppose it is.”
There was another pause.