equally excellent entrecôte to follow.
“And now for quarters for the night,” said Poirot, when at length café noir had completed the meal. “Shall we try our old friend, the Hôtel des Bains?”
We traced our steps there without more ado. Yes, Messieurs could be accommodated with two good rooms overlooking the sea. Then Poirot asked a question which surprised me.
“Has an English lady, Miss Robinson, arrived?”
“Yes, monsieur. She is in the little salon.”
“Ah!”
“Poirot,” I cried, keeping pace with him as he walked along the corridor, “who on earth is Miss Robinson?”
Poirot beamed kindly on me.
“It is that I have arranged you a marriage, Hastings.”
“But, I say—”
“Bah!” said Poirot, giving me a friendly push over the threshold of the door. “Do you think I wish to trumpet aloud in Merlinville the name of Duveen?”
It was indeed Cinderella who rose to greet us. I took her hands in both of mine. My eyes said the rest.
Poirot cleared his throat.
“Mes enfants,” he said, “for the moment we have no time for sentiment. There is work ahead of us. Mademoiselle, were you able to do what I asked you?”
In response, Cinderella took from her bag an object wrapped up in paper, and handed it silently to Poirot. The latter unwrapped it. I gave a start—for it was the aeroplane dagger which I understood she had cast into the sea. Strange, how reluctant women always are to destroy the most compromising of objects and documents!
“Très bien, mon enfant,” said Poirot. “I am pleased with you. Go now and rest yourself. Hastings here and I have work to do. You shall see him tomorrow.”
“Where are you going?” asked the girl, her eyes widening.
“You shall hear all about it tomorrow.”
