do not find it easy to talk; they keep their sorrows and joys to themselves and tell no one."
"I was a fool," said Lenox; "I thought she really cared for Knighton. I ought to have known better. I suppose I thought so because—well, I hoped so."
Poirot took her hand and gave it a little friendly squeeze. "Courage, Mademoiselle," he said gently.
Lenox looked very straight out across the sea, and her face, in its ugly rigidity, had for the moment a tragic beauty.
"Oh, well," she said at last, "it would not have done. I am too young for Derek; he is like a kid that has never grown up. He wants the Madonna touch."
There was a long silence, then Lenox turned to him quickly and impulsively. "But I did help, Monsieur Poirot—at any rate I did help."
"Yes, Mademoiselle. It was you who gave me the first inkling of the truth when you said that the person who committed the crime need not have been on the train at all. Before that, I could not see how the thing had been done."
Lenox drew a deep breath.
"I am glad," she said; "at any rate—that is something."
From far behind them there came a long-draw-out scream of an engine's whistle.
"That is that damned Blue Train," said Lenox. "Trains are relentless things, aren't they, Monsieur Poirot? People are murdered and die, but they go on just the same. I am talking nonsense, but you know what I mean."
"Yes, yes, I know. Life is like a train, Mademoiselle.
