profit, and that she found out--"
Mary Delafontaine nodded. "We've done it for
years--a little here and there. I never realized she
was sharp enough to find out. And then I learned
she had sent for a detective; and I found out, too,
that she was leaving her money to Katrina--that
miserable little creature!"
"And so the strychnine was put in Katrina's
bedroom? I comprehend. You save yourself and
your husband from what I may discover, and you
saddle an innocent child with murder. Had you no
pity, madame?"
Mary Delafontaine shrugged her shouldersm
her blue forget-me-not eyes looked into Poirot's.
He remembered the perfection of her acting the
first day he had come and the bungling attempts
of her husband. A woman above the averagefbut
inhuman.
She said, "Pity? For that miserable intriguing
little rat?" Her contempt rang out.
Hercule Poirot said slowly, "I think, madame,
that you have cared in your life for two things
only. One is your husband."
He saw her lips tremble.
"And the other--is your garden."
He looked round him. His glance seemed to
apologize to the flowers for that which he had
done and was about to do.
at Pollensa Bay
The steamer from Barcelona to Majorca landed