“About a dozen times perhaps.”
“And I—once! Yet _I_ recognize her, and _you_ do not.”
“She looks so different,” I replied rather feebly.
“Ah! _Sacré_!” cried Poirot. “Is it that you expect her to promenade
herself in the streets of London in a cowboy hat, or with bare
feet, and a bunch of curls, as an Irish colleen? Always with you
it is the non-essentials! Remember the case of the dancer, Valerie
Saintclair.”