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206
Agatha Christie
This was quite a new mood in Poirot. His mocking manner seemed laid quite aside. I was able to say what I wanted without too much difficulty.
“She doesn’t say—she doesn’t say—well, not whether she cares for me or not!”
Poirot turned back the pages.
“I think you are mistaken, Hastings.”
“Where?” I cried, leaning forward eagerly.
Poirot smiled.
“She tells you that in every line of the letter, mon ami.”
“But where am I to find her? There’s no address on the letter. There’s a French stamp, that’s all.”
“Excite yourself not! Leave it to Papa Poirot. I can find her for you as soon as I have five little minutes!”
