“Miss Emily Arundell?”
“Yes, Miss Emily Arundell. You don’t receive letters from corpses, do you, M. Poirot?”
“Sometimes I do, mademoiselle.”
“How macabre!”
But there was a new note in her voice—a note suddenly alert and watchful.
“And what did my aunt say, M. Poirot?”
“That, mademoiselle, I can hardly tell you just at present. It was, you see, a somewhat”—he coughed—“delicate matter.”
There was silence for a minute or two. Theresa Arundell smoked. Then she said:
“It all sounds delightfully hush-hush. But where exactly do I come in?”
“I hoped, mademoiselle, that you might consent to answer a few questions.”
“Questions? What about?”
“Questions of a family nature.”
Again I saw her eyes widen.
“That sounds rather pompous! Supposing you give me a specimen.”
“Certainly. Can you tell me the present address of your brother Charles?”
The eyes narrowed again. Her latent energy was less apparent. It was as though she withdrew into a shell.
“I’m afraid I can’t. We don’t correspond much. I rather think he has left England.”
“I see.”
Poirot was silent for a minute or two.
“Was that all you wanted to know?”
“Oh, I have other questions. For one—are you satisfied with the way in which your aunt disposed of her fortune? For another—how long have you been engaged to Dr. Donaldson?”
“You do jump about, don’t you?”
“Eh bien?”
“Eh bien—since we are so foreign!—my answer to both those
questions is they are none of your business! Ca ne vous regarde pas, M. Hercule Poirot.”
Poirot studied her for a moment or two attentively. Then, with no trace of disappointment, he got up.
“So it is like that! Ah, well, perhaps it is not surprising. Allow me, mademoiselle, to congratulate you upon your French accent. And to wish you a very good morning. Come, Hastings.”
We had reached the door when the girl spoke. The simile of a whiplash came again into my mind. She did not move from her position but the two words were like the flick of a whip.
“Come back!” she said.
Poirot obeyed slowly. He sat down again and looked at her inquiringly.