suppose?’
‘I think of no one in particular until I am sure,’ said Poirot gently.
He turned his attention to the open french window, and the doctor continued:
‘It is through here that Mademoiselle Saintclair fled. You can just catch a glimpse of Daisymead between the trees. Of course, there are many houses nearer to the front of the house on the road, but as it happens, Daisymead, though some distance away, is the only house visible this side.’
‘Thank you for your amiability, Doctor,’ said Poirot. ‘Come, Hastings, we will follow the footsteps of Mademoiselle.’
III
Poirot led the way down through the garden, out through an iron gate, across a short stretch of green and in through the garden gate of Daisymead, which was an unpretentious little house in about half an acre of ground. There was a small flight of steps leading up to a french window. Poirot nodded in their direction.
‘That is the way Mademoiselle Saintclair went. For us, who have not her urgency to plead, it will be better to go round to the front door.’
A maid admitted us and took us into the drawing-room, then went in search of Mrs Oglander. The room had evidently not been touched since the night before. The ashes were still in the grate, and the bridge-table was still in the centre of the room, with a dummy exposed, and the hands thrown down. The place was somewhat overloaded with gimcrack ornaments, and a good many family portraits of surpassing ugliness adorned the walls.
Poirot gazed at them more leniently than I did, and straightened one or two that were hanging a shade askew. ‘ La famille , it is a strong tie, is it not? Sentiment, it takes the place of beauty.’
I agreed, my eyes being fixed on a family groupcomprising a gentleman with whiskers, a lady with a high ‘front’ of hair, a solid, thick-set boy, and two little girls tied up with a good many unnecessary bows of ribbon. I took this to be the Oglander family in earlier days, and studied it with interest.
The door opened, and a young woman came in. Her dark hair was neatly arranged, and she wore a drab-coloured sportscoat and a tweed skirt.
She looked at us inquiringly. Poirot stepped forward. ‘Miss Oglander? I regret to derange you—especially after all you have been through. The whole affair must have been most disturbing.’
‘It has been rather upsetting,’ admitted the young lady cautiously. I began to think that the elements of drama were wasted on Miss Oglander, that her lack of imagination rose superior to any tragedy. I was confirmed in this belief as she continued: ‘I must apologize for the state this room is in. Servants get so foolishly excited.’
‘It was here that you were sitting last night, n’est-ce pas ?’
‘Yes, we were playing bridge after supper, when—’
‘Excuse me—how long had you been playing?’
‘Well—’ Miss Oglander considered. ‘I really can’t say. I suppose it must have been about ten o’clock. We had had several rubbers, I know.’
‘And you yourself were sitting—where?’
‘Facing the window. I was playing with my mother and had gone one no trump. Suddenly, without any warning, the window burst open, and Miss Saintclair staggered into the room.’
‘You recognized her?’
‘I had a vague idea her face was familiar.’
‘She is still here, is she not?’
‘Yes, but she refuses to see anyone. She is still quite prostrated.’
‘I think she will see me. Will you tell her that I am here at the express request of Prince Paul of Maurania?’
I fancied that the mention of a royal prince rather shook Miss Oglander’s imperturbable calm. But she left the room on her errand without any further remark, and returned almost immediately to say that Mademoiselle Saintclair would see us in her room.
We followed her upstairs, and into a fair-sized light bedroom. On a couch by the window a woman was lying who turned her head as we entered. The contrast between the two women struck me at once, the more
‘I think of no one in particular until I am sure,’ said Poirot gently.
He turned his attention to the open french window, and the doctor continued:
‘It is through here that Mademoiselle Saintclair fled. You can just catch a glimpse of Daisymead between the trees. Of course, there are many houses nearer to the front of the house on the road, but as it happens, Daisymead, though some distance away, is the only house visible this side.’
‘Thank you for your amiability, Doctor,’ said Poirot. ‘Come, Hastings, we will follow the footsteps of Mademoiselle.’
III
Poirot led the way down through the garden, out through an iron gate, across a short stretch of green and in through the garden gate of Daisymead, which was an unpretentious little house in about half an acre of ground. There was a small flight of steps leading up to a french window. Poirot nodded in their direction.
‘That is the way Mademoiselle Saintclair went. For us, who have not her urgency to plead, it will be better to go round to the front door.’
A maid admitted us and took us into the drawing-room, then went in search of Mrs Oglander. The room had evidently not been touched since the night before. The ashes were still in the grate, and the bridge-table was still in the centre of the room, with a dummy exposed, and the hands thrown down. The place was somewhat overloaded with gimcrack ornaments, and a good many family portraits of surpassing ugliness adorned the walls.
Poirot gazed at them more leniently than I did, and straightened one or two that were hanging a shade askew. ‘ La famille , it is a strong tie, is it not? Sentiment, it takes the place of beauty.’
I agreed, my eyes being fixed on a family groupcomprising a gentleman with whiskers, a lady with a high ‘front’ of hair, a solid, thick-set boy, and two little girls tied up with a good many unnecessary bows of ribbon. I took this to be the Oglander family in earlier days, and studied it with interest.
The door opened, and a young woman came in. Her dark hair was neatly arranged, and she wore a drab-coloured sportscoat and a tweed skirt.
She looked at us inquiringly. Poirot stepped forward. ‘Miss Oglander? I regret to derange you—especially after all you have been through. The whole affair must have been most disturbing.’
‘It has been rather upsetting,’ admitted the young lady cautiously. I began to think that the elements of drama were wasted on Miss Oglander, that her lack of imagination rose superior to any tragedy. I was confirmed in this belief as she continued: ‘I must apologize for the state this room is in. Servants get so foolishly excited.’
‘It was here that you were sitting last night, n’est-ce pas ?’
‘Yes, we were playing bridge after supper, when—’
‘Excuse me—how long had you been playing?’
‘Well—’ Miss Oglander considered. ‘I really can’t say. I suppose it must have been about ten o’clock. We had had several rubbers, I know.’
‘And you yourself were sitting—where?’
‘Facing the window. I was playing with my mother and had gone one no trump. Suddenly, without any warning, the window burst open, and Miss Saintclair staggered into the room.’
‘You recognized her?’
‘I had a vague idea her face was familiar.’
‘She is still here, is she not?’
‘Yes, but she refuses to see anyone. She is still quite prostrated.’
‘I think she will see me. Will you tell her that I am here at the express request of Prince Paul of Maurania?’
I fancied that the mention of a royal prince rather shook Miss Oglander’s imperturbable calm. But she left the room on her errand without any further remark, and returned almost immediately to say that Mademoiselle Saintclair would see us in her room.
We followed her upstairs, and into a fair-sized light bedroom. On a couch by the window a woman was lying who turned her head as we entered. The contrast between the two women struck me at once, the more
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