“So I thought. All the same, there is something curious underneath
all this. With your permission, _mon ami_, I will take the air.
Await my return, I beg of you. I shall not be long.”
I was half asleep in my chair when the landlady tapped on the door,
and put her head in.
“It’s another lady to see Mr. Poirot, sir. I’ve told her he was
out, but she says as how she’ll wait, seeing as she’s come up from
the country.”
“Oh, show her in here, Mrs. Murchison. Perhaps I can do something
for her.”
In another moment the lady had been ushered in. My heart gave a
leap as I recognized her. Lady Yardly’s portrait had figured too
often in the Society papers to allow her to remain unknown.
“Do sit down, Lady Yardly,” I said, drawing forward a chair. “My
friend Poirot is out, but I know for a fact that he’ll be back very
shortly.”
She thanked me and sat down. A very different type, this, from Miss
Mary Marvell. Tall, dark, with flashing eyes, and a pale proud
face—yet something wistful in the curves of the mouth.
I felt a desire to rise to the occasion. Why not? In Poirot’s
presence I have frequently felt a difficulty—I do not appear at my
best. And yet there is no doubt that I, too, possess the deductive
sense in a marked degree. I leant forward on a sudden impulse.
“Lady Yardly,” I said, “I know why you have come here. You have
received blackmailing letters about the diamond.”
There was no doubt as to my bolt having shot home. She stared at
me open-mouthed, all colour banished from her cheeks.
“You know?” she gasped. “How?”