“I understand,” I said, “but—but don’t do anything rash.”
“Oh, rash!” Her voice mocked at my prudence.
Then suddenly I said a thing I could have bitten out my tongue for:
“You know that Dr. Bauerstein has been arrested?”
An instant coldness passed like a mask over her face, blotting out all expression.
“John was so kind as to break that to me this morning.”
“Well, what do you think?” I asked feebly.
“Of what?”
“Of the arrest?”
“What should I think? Apparently he is a German spy; so the gardener had told John.”
Her face and voice were absolutely cold and expressionless. Did she care, or did she not?
She moved away a step or two, and fingered one of the flower vases.
“These are quite dead. I must do them again. Would you mind moving—thank you, Mr. Hastings.” And she walked quietly past me out of the window, with a cool little nod of dismissal.
No, surely she could not care for Bauerstein. No woman could act her part with that icy unconcern.
Poirot did not make his appearance the following morning, and there was no sign of the Scotland Yard men.
But, at lunch-time, there arrived a new piece of evidence—or rather lack of evidence. We had vainly tried to trace the fourth letter, which Mrs. Inglethorp had written on the evening preceding her death. Our efforts having been in vain, we had abandoned the matter, hoping that it might turn up of itself one day. And this is just what did happen, in the shape of a communication, which arrived by the second post from a firm of French music publishers, acknowledging Mrs. Inglethorp’s cheque, and regretting they had been unable to trace a certain series of Russian folksongs. So the last hope of solving the mystery, by means of Mrs. Inglethorp’s correspondence on the fatal evening, had to be abandoned.
Just before tea, I strolled down to tell Poirot of the new disappointment, but found, to my annoyance, that he was once more out.
“Gone to London again?”
“Oh, no, monsieur, he has but taken the train to Tadminster. ‘To see a young lady’s dispensary,’ he said.”
“Silly ass!” I ejaculated. “I told him Wednesday was the one day she wasn’t there! Well, tell him to look us up to-morrow morning, will you?”
“Certainly, monsieur.”
But, on the following day, no sign of Poirot. I was getting angry. He was really treating us in the most cavalier fashion.
After lunch, Lawrence drew me aside, and asked if I was going down to see him.
“No, I don’t think I shall. He can come up here if he wants to see us.”
“Oh!” Lawrence looked indeterminate. Something unusually nervous and excited in his manner roused my curiosity.
“What is it?” I asked. “I could go if there’s anything special.”
“It’s nothing much, but—well, if you are going, will you tell him——” he dropped his voice to a whisper—“I think I’ve found the extra coffee-cup!”
I had almost forgotten that enigmatical message of Poirot’s, but now my curiosity was aroused afresh.
Lawrence would say no more, so I decided that I would descend from my high horse, and once more seek out Poirot at Leastways Cottage.
This time I was received with a smile. Monsieur Poirot was within. Would I mount? I mounted accordingly.
Poirot was sitting by the table, his head buried in his hands. He sprang up at my entrance.
“What is it?” I asked solicitously. “You are not ill, I trust?”
“No, no, not ill. But I decide an affair of great moment.”
“Whether to catch the criminal or not?” I asked facetiously.
But, to my great surprise, Poirot nodded gravely.
“‘To speak or not to speak,’ as your so great Shakespeare says, ‘that is the question.’”
I did not trouble to correct the quotation.
“You are not serious, Poirot?”
“I am of the most serious. For the most serious of all things hangs in the balance.”
“And that is?”
