“That was Poirot’s first big case. Undoubtedly, but for him, the
murderer would have escaped scot-free. It was a most wonderful bit of
detective work.”
Warming to my subject, I ran over the heads of the affair, working up
to the triumphant and unexpected dénouement. The girl listened
spellbound. In fact, we were so absorbed that the train drew into
Calais station before we realized it.
“My goodness gracious me!” cried my companion. “Where’s my
powder-puff?”
She proceeded to bedaub her face liberally, and then applied a stick of
lip salve to her lips, observing the effect in a small pocket glass,
and betraying not the faintest sign of self-consciousness.
“I say,” I hesitated. “I dare say it’s cheek on my part, but why do all
that sort of thing?”
The girl paused in her operations, and stared at me with undisguised
surprise.
“It isn’t as though you weren’t so pretty that you can afford to do
without it,” I said stammeringly.
“My dear boy! I’ve got to do it. All the girls do. Think I want to look
like a little frump up from the country?” She took one last look in the
mirror, smiled approval, and put it and her vanity-box away in her bag.
“That’s better. Keeping up appearances is a bit of a fag, I grant, but
if a girl respects herself it’s up to her not to let herself get
slack.”
To this essentially moral sentiment, I had no reply. A point of view
makes a great difference.
I secured a couple of porters, and we alighted on the platform. My
companion held out her hand.
“Good-bye, and I’ll mind my language better in future.”
“Oh, but surely you’ll let me look after you on the boat?”
“Mayn’t be on the boat. I’ve got to see whether that sister of mine got
aboard after all anywhere. But thanks all the same.”
“Oh, but we’re going to meet again, surely? I—” I hesitated. “I want to
meet your sister.”
We both laughed.
“That’s real nice of you. I’ll tell her what you say. But I don’t fancy
we’ll meet again. You’ve been very good to me on the journey,
especially after I cheeked you as I did. But what your face expressed
first thing is quite true. I’m not your kind. And that brings
trouble—_I___ know that well enough.…”
Her face changed. For the moment all the light-hearted gaiety died out
of it. It looked angry—revengeful.…
“So good-bye,” she finished, in a lighter tone.
“Aren’t you even going to tell me your name?” I cried, as she turned
away.
She looked over her shoulder. A dimple appeared in each cheek. She was
like a lovely picture by Greuze.
“Cinderella,” she said, and laughed.
But little did I think when and how I should see Cinderella again.