her eyes cast down, the same very faint enigmatical smile that I remembered on her lips. And suddenly I felt afraid of her, as one might feel afraid of a beautiful poisonous snake.
“I hope we have not deranged you, madame,” said Poirot politely as she opened the door for us to pass out.
“Not at all, monsieur.”
“By the way,” said Poirot, as though struck by an afterthought, “M. Stonor has not been in Merlinville today, has he?”
I could not at all fathom the point of this question which I well knew to be meaningless as far as Poirot was concerned.
Madame Daubreuil replied quite composedly:
“Not that I know of.”
“He has not had an interview with Mrs. Renauld?”
“How should I know that, monsieur?”
“True,” said Poirot. “I thought you might have seen him coming or going, that is all. Good night, madame.”
“Why—” I began.
“No ‘whys,’ Hastings. There will be time for that later.”
We rejoined Cinderella and made our way rapidly in the direction of the Villa Geneviève. Poirot looked over his shoulder once at the lighted window and the profile of Marthe as she bent over her work.
“He is being guarded at all events,” he muttered.
Arrived at the Villa Geneviève, Poirot took up his stand behind some bushes to the left of the drive, where, whilst enjoying a good view ourselves, we were completely hidden from sight. The Villa itself was in total darkness, everybody was without doubt in bed and asleep. We were almost immediately under the window of Mrs. Renauld’s bedroom, which window, I noticed, was open. It seemed to me that it was upon this spot that Poirot’s eyes were fixed.
“What are we going to do?” I whispered.
“Watch.”
“But—”
