“Well, Leonie, you should know.”
The girl answered confidently:
“Yes, monsieur. I could not be mistaken there. I know all madame’s moods. She is in high spirits.”
“Positively triumphant?”
“That is exactly the word, monsieur.”
Poirot nodded gloomily.
“I find that—a little hard to bear. Yet I perceive that it is inevitable. Thank you, mademoiselle, that is all.”
Leonie threw him a coquettish glance.
“Thank you, monsieur. If I meet monsieur on the stairs, be well-assured that I shall not scream.”
“My child,” said Poirot with dignity. “I am of advanced years. What have I to do with such frivolities?”
But with a little twitter of laughter, Leonie took herself off.
Poirot paced slowly up and down the room. His face became grave and anxious.
“And now,” he said at last, “for Lady Julia. What will she say, I wonder?”
Lady Julia came into the room with a quiet air of assurance. She bent her head graciously, accepted the chair that Poirot drew forward and spoke in a low, well-bred voice.
“Lord Mayfield says that you wish to ask me some questions.”
“Yes, madame. It is about last night.”
“About last night, yes?”
“What happened after you had finished your game of bridge?”
“My husband thought it was too late to begin another. I went up to bed.”
“And then?”
“I went to sleep.”
“That is all?”
“Yes. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything of much interest. When did this”—she hesitated—“burglary occur?”
“Very soon after you went upstairs.”
“I see. And what exactly was taken?”
“Some private papers, madame.”
“Important papers?”
“Very important.”
She frowned a little and then said:
“They were—valuable?”