“C’est tout naturel. Did you observe how Franklin Clarke was suddenly at one and in sympathy with Mademoiselle Megan? How he leaned forward and looked at her? And did you also notice how very much annoyed Mademoiselle Thora Grey was about it? And Mr. Donald Fraser, he—”

“Poirot,” I said. “Your mind is incurably sentimental.”

“That is the last thing my mind is. You are the sentimental one, Hastings.”

I was about to argue the point hotly, but at that moment the door opened.

To my astonishment it was Thora Grey who entered.

“Forgive me for coming back,” she said composedly. “But there was something that I think I would like to tell you, M. Poirot.”

“Certainly, mademoiselle. Sit down, will you not?”

She took a seat and hesitated for just a minute as though choosing her words.

“It is just this, M. Poirot. Mr. Clarke very generously gave you to understand just now that I had left Combeside by my own wish. He is a very kind and loyal person. But as a matter of fact, it is not quite like that. I was quite prepared to stay on—there is any amount of work to be done in connection with the collections. It was Lady Clarke who wished me to leave! I can make allowances. She is a very ill woman, and her brain is somewhat muddled with the drugs they give her. It makes her suspicious and fanciful. She took an unreasoning dislike to me and insisted that I should leave the house.”

I could not but admire the girl’s courage. She did not attempt to gloss over facts, as so many might have been tempted to do, but went straight to the point with an admirable candour. My heart went out to her in admiration and sympathy.

“I call it splendid of you to come and tell us this,” I said.

“It’s always better to have the truth,” she said with a little smile. “I don’t want to shelter behind Mr. Clarke’s chivalry. He is a very chivalrous man.”

There was a warm glow in her words. She evidently admired Franklin Clarke enormously.

“You have been very honest, mademoiselle,” said Poirot.

“It is rather a blow to me,” said Thora ruefully. “I had no idea Lady Clarke disliked me so much. In fact, I always thought she was rather fond of me.” She made a wry face. “One lives and learns.”

She rose.

“That is all I came to say. Goodbye.”

I accompanied her downstairs.

“I call that very sporting of her,” I said as I returned to the room. “She has courage, that girl.”

“And calculation.”

“What do you mean—calculation?”

“I mean that she has the power of looking ahead.”

I looked at him doubtfully.

“She really is a lovely girl,” I said.

“And wears very lovely cl

othes. That crêpe marocain and the silver fox collar—dernier cri.”

“You’re a man milliner, Poirot. I never notice what people have on.”

“You should join a nudist colony.”

As I was about to make an indignant rejoinder, he said, with a sudden change of subject:

“Do you know, Hastings, I cannot rid my mind of the impression that already, in our conversations this afternoon, something was said that was significant. It is odd—I cannot pin down exactly what it was…Just an impression that passed through my mind…That reminds me of something I have already heard or seen or noted….”

Tags: Agatha Christie Hercule Poirot Mystery
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