The whole affair, as Poirot would have said, was marching splendidly.
“And so you can tell us something about “Mr. Claud Darrell?” continued Poirot.
“I knew Mr. Darrell very well at one time,” explained the lady. “And I saw your advertisement, being out of a shop for the moment, and my time being my own, I said to myself: There, they want to know about poor old Claudie—lawyers, too—maybe it’s a fortune looking for the rightful heir, I’d better go round at once.”
Mr. McNeil rose.
“Well, Monsieur Poirot, shall I leave you for a little conversation with Miss Monro?”
“You are too amiable. But stay—a little idea presents itself to me. The hour of the déjeuner approaches. Mademoiselle will perhaps honour me by coming out to luncheon with me?”
Miss Monro’s eyes glistened. It struck me that she was in exceedingly low water, and that the chance of a square meal was not to be despised.
A few minutes later saw us all in a taxi, bound for one of London’s most expensive restaurants. Once arrived there, Poirot ordered a most delectable lunch, and then turned to his guest.
“And for wine, mademoiselle? What do you say to champagne?”
Miss Monro said nothing—or everything.
