"It seems a queer way of doing things, if you'll allow me to say so," she remarked.
"Miss Russell—I have news to give you."
"Indeed!"
"Charles Kent has been arrested at Liverpool."
Not a muscle of her face moved. She merely opened her eyes a trifle wider, and asked, with a tinge of defiance:
"Well, what of it?"
But at that moment it came to me—the resemblance that had haunted me all along, something familiar in the defiance of Charles Kent's manner. The two voices, one rough and coarse, the other painfully ladylike—were strangely the same in timbre. It was of Miss Russell that I had been reminded that night outside the gates of Fernly Park.
I looked at Poirot, full of my discovery, and he gave me an imperceptible nod.
In answer to Miss Russell's question, he threw out his hands in a thoroughly French gesture.
"I thought you might be interested, that is all," he said mildly.
"Well, I'm not particularly," said Miss Russell. "Who is this Charles Kent anyway?"
"He is a man, mademoiselle, who was at Fernly on the night of the murder."
"Really?"
"Fortunately for him, he has an alibi. At a quarter to ten he was at a public-house a mile from here."
"Lucky for him," commented Miss Russell.
[244]
