The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories (Hercule Poirot 21)

"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