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"Yes, you know--Bolshies, Reds, all that sort
of thing."
"Don't be absurd, Henry," said his wife.
Mr. Delafontaine collapsed. "Sorry--sorry--I
just wondered."
Mary Delafontaine looked frankly at Poirot.
Her eyes were very blue--the color of forget-menots.
"If you can tell us anything, M. Poirot, I
should be glad if you would do so. I can assure
you that I have a--a reason for asking."
Mr. Delafontaine looked alarmed. "Be careful,
old girl--you know there may be nothing in it."
Again his wife quelled him with a glance.
"Well, M. Poirot?"
Slowly, gravely, Hercule Poirot shook his head.
He shook it with visible regret, but he shook it.
"At present, madame," he said, "I fear I must
say nothing."
He bowed, picked up his hat and moved to the
door. Mary Delafontaine came with him into the
hall. On the doorstep he paused and looked at her.
"You are fond of your garden, I think, madame?"
"I? Yes, I spend a lot of time gardening."
"Je vous fait mes compliments."
He bowed once more and strode down to the
gate. As he passed out of it and turned to the right
he glanced back and registered two impressions
--a sallow face watching him from a first-floor
window, and a man of erect and soldierly carriage