Chapter XIII
The Girl with the
Anxious Eyes
WE lunched with an excellent appetite. I understood well enough that Poirot did not wish to discuss the tragedy where we could so easily be overheard. But, as is usual when one topic fills the mind to the exclusion of everything else, no other subject of interest seemed to present itself. For a while we ate in silence, and then Poirot observed maliciously, “Eh bien! And Your indiscretions! You recount them not?”
I felt myself blushing.
“Oh, you mean this morning?" I endeavored to adopt a tone of absolute nonchalance.
But I was no match for Poirot. In a very few minutes he had extracted the whole story from me, his eves twinkling as he did so.
“Tiens! A story of the most romantic. What is her name, this charming young lady?”
I had to confess that I did not know.
“Still more romantic! The first rencontre in the train from Paris, the second here. Journeys end in lovers’ meetings, is not that the saying?”
“Don’t be an ass, Poirot.”
“Yesterday it was Mademoiselle Daubreuil, today it is Mademoiselle—Cinderella! Decidedly you have the heart of a Turk, Hastings! You should establish a harem!”
“It’s all very well to rag me. Mademoiselle Daubreuil is a
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