foreign gentleman talking aloud to himself in the
front garden. She was, as Poirot had noted, a very
pretty little maid, with round blue eyes and rosy
cheeks.
Poirot raised his hat with courtesy and addressed
her: "Pardon, but does a.Miss Amelia
Barrowby live here?"
The little maid gasped and her eyes grew
rounder. "Oh, sir, didn't you know? She's dead.
Ever so sudden it was. Tuesday night."
She hesitated, divided between two strong instincts:
the first, distrust of a foreigner; the sec
60
Agatha Christie
and, the pleasurable enjoyment of her class in
dwelling on the subject of illness and death.
"You amaze me," said Hercule Poirot, not very
truthfully. "I had an appointment with the lady
for today. However, I can perhaps see the other
lady who lives here."
The little maid seemed slightly doubtful. "The
mistress? Well, you could see her, perhaps, but I
don't k
now whether she'll be seeing anyone or
not."
"She will see me," said Poirot, and handed her
a card.
The authority of his tone had its effect. The
rosy-cheeked maid fell back and ushered PoirOt
into a sitting room on the right of the hall. Then,