The money is mine. She wrote it down so, and so it

shall be." She looked ugly, her chin thrust out,

her eyes gleaming.

The door opened and a tall woman entered and

said, "Katrina."

The girl shrank, flushed, muttered something

and went out through the window.

Poirot turned to face the newcomer who had

so effectually dealt with the situation by uttering

a single word. There had been authority in her

voice, and contempt and a shade of well-bred

irony. He realized at once that this was the owner

of the house, Mary Delafontaine.

"M. Poirot? I wrote to you. You cannot have

received my letter."

"Alas, I have been away from London."

"Oh, I see; that explains it. I must introduce

myself. My name is Delafontaine. This is my hus-band.

Miss Barrowby was my aunt."

Mr. Delafontaine had entered so quietly that his

arrival had passed unnoticed. He was a tall man

with grizzled hair and an indeterminate manner.

He had a nervous way of fingering his chin. He

looked often toward his wife, and it was plain that

62

Agatha Christie

he expected her to take the lead in any conversa-tion.

"I much regret that I intrude in the midst of

your bereavement," said Hercule Poirot.

"I quite realize that it is not your fault," said

Tags: Agatha Christie Hercule Poirot Mystery
Source: readsnovelonline.net