people in books, but I don't know many people
who do it in reality--and certainly no one under
sixty. You said this woman was forty. Those
dropped g's sounded to me like a woman who was
playing a part and overdoing it."
I shan't tell you what Mr. Petherick said to that
--but he was very complimentary--and I really
couldn't help feeling just a teeny weeny bit pleased
with myself.
And it's extraordinary how things turn out for
the best in this world. Mr. Rhodes has married
again--such a nice, sensible girl--and they've got
a dear little baby andmwhat do you think?tthey
asked me to be godmother. Wasn't it nice of
them?
Now I do hope you don't think I've been run-ning
on too long ....
Hercule Poirot gave the house a steady appraising
glance. His eyes wandered a moment to its sur-roundings,
the shops, the big factory building on
the right, the blocks of cheap mansion flats op-posite.
Then once more his eyes returned to Northway
House, relic of an earlier age--an age of space and
leisure, when green fields had surrounded its well-bred
arrogance. Now it was an anachronism, sub-merged
and forgotten in the hectic sea of modern
London, and not one man in fifty could have told
you where it stood.
Furthermore, very few people could have told
you to whom it belonged, though its owner's name