And in the midst of a fit of laughter on my part at Poirot’s peculiarities, the door was opened by Françoise.
Poirot explained that he must see Mrs. Renauld at once, and the old woman conducted him upstairs. I remained in the salon. It was some time before Poirot reappeared. He was looking unusually grave.
“Vous voilà, Hastings! Sacré tonnerre, but there are squalls ahead!”
“What do you mean?” I cried.
“I would hardly have credited it,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “but women are very unexpected.”
“Here are Jack and Marthe Daubreuil,” I exclaimed, looking out of the window.
Poirot bounded out of the room, and met the young couple on the steps outside.
“Do not enter. It is better not. Your mother is very upset.”
“I know, I know,” said Jack Renauld. “I must go up to her at once.”
“But no, I tell you. It is better not.”
“But Marthe and I—”
“In any case, do not take Mademoiselle with you. Mount, if you must, but you would be wise to be guided by me.”
A voice on the stairs behind made us all start.
“I thank you for your good offices, M. Poirot, but I will make my own wishes clear.”
We stared in astonishment. Descending the stairs, leaning upon Léonie’s arm, was Mrs. Renauld, her head still bandaged. The French girl was weeping, and imploring her mistress to return to bed.
“Madame will kill herself. It is contrary to all the doctor’s orders!”
But Mrs. Renauld came on.
