“Why do you want to know?”
The girl seemed frightened by the question. All at once Poirot’s words about her earlier in the day recurred to me. The “girl with the anxious eyes!”
“M. Renauld was always very kind to me,” she replied at last. “It is natural that I should be interested.”
“I see,” said Poirot. “Well, mademoiselle, suspicion at present is hovering round two persons.”
“Two?”
I could have sworn there was a note of surprise and relief in her voice.
“Their names are unknown, but they are presumed to be Chilians from Santiago. And now, mademoiselle, you see what comes of being young and beautiful! I have betrayed professional secrets for you!”
The girl laughed merrily, and then, rather shyly, she thanked him.
“I must run back now. Maman will miss me.”
And she turned and ran back up the road, looking like a modern Atalanta. I stared after her.
“Mon ami,” said Poirot, in his gentle ironical voice, “is it that we are to remain planted here all night—just because you have seen a beautiful young woman, and your head is in a whirl?”
I laughed and apologized.
“But she is beautiful, Poirot. Any one might be excused for being bowled over by her.”
Poirot groaned.
“Mon Dieu! But it is that you have the susceptible heart!”
“Poirot,” I said, “do you remember after the Styles Case when—”
“When you were in love with two charming women at once, and neither of them were for you? Yes, I remember.”
“You consoled me by saying that perhaps some day we should hunt together again, and that then—”
“Eh bien?”
