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III
Lydia Lee stood by the far window of the drawing room looking out. Her figure was half hiddenby the heavy window curtains. A sound in the room made her turn with a start to see HerculePoirot standing1 by the door.
She said:
“You startled me, M. Poirot.”
“I apologize, madame. I walk softly.”
She said:
“I thought it was Horbury.”
Hercule Poirot nodded.
“It is true, he steps softly, that one—like a cat—or a thief.”
He paused a minute, watching her.
“I have never cared for that man. I shall be glad to get rid of him.”
“I think you will be wise to do so, madame.”
She looked at him quickly. She said:
“What do you mean? Do you know anything against him?”
Poirot said:
“He is a man who collects secrets—and uses them to his advantage.”
She said sharply:
“Do you think he knows anything—about the murder?”
“He has quiet feet and long ears. He may have overheard something that he is keeping tohimself.”
Lydia said clearly:
“It is within the bounds of possibility. But that is not what I came here to say.”
“What did you come to say?”
Poirot said slowly:
“I have been talking with M. Alfred Lee. He has made me a proposition, and I wished todiscuss it with you before accepting or declining it. But I was so struck by the picture you made—the charming pattern of your jumper against the deep red of the curtains, that I paused to admire.”
Lydia said sharply:
“Really, M. Poirot, must we waste time in compliments?”
“I beg your pardon, madame. So few English ladies understand la toilette. The dress youwere wearing the first night I saw you, its bold but simple pattern, it had grace—distinction.”
Lydia said impatiently:
“What was it you wanted to see me about?”
Poirot became grave.
“Just this, madame. Your husband, he wishes me to take up the investigation5 very seriously.
He demands that I stay here, in the house, and do my utmost to get to the bottom of the matter.”
Lydia said sharply:
“Well?”
Poirot said slowly:
She said coldly:
“Yes, madame, but I need more than that. Do you really want me to come here?”
“Why not?”
“Let us be more frank. What I ask you is this: do you want the truth to come out, or not?”
“Naturally.”
Poirot sighed.
“Must you return me these conventional replies?”
Lydia said:
“I am a conventional woman.”
Then she bit her lip, hesitated, and said:
“Perhaps it is better to speak frankly8. Of course I understand you! The position is not apleasant one. My father-in-law has been brutally9 murdered, and unless a case can be made outagainst the most likely suspect—Horbury—for robbery and murder—and it seems that it cannot—then it comes to this—one of his own family killed him. To bring that person to justice will meanbringing shame and disgrace on us all .?.?. If I am to speak honestly I must say that I do not wantthis to happen.”
Poirot said:
“You are content for the murderer to escape unpunished?”
“There are probably several undiscovered murderers at large in the world.”
“That, I grant you.”
“Does one more matter, then?”
Poirot said:
“And what about the other members of the family? The innocent?”
She stared.
“What about them?”
“Do you realize that if it turns out as you hope, no one will ever know. The shadow willremain on all alike. .?.?.”
She said uncertainly:
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Poirot said:
“No one will ever know who the guilty person is. .?.?.”
He added softly:
“Unless you already know, madame?”
She cried out:
“You have no business to say that! It’s not true! Oh! If only it could be a stranger—not amember of the family.”
Poirot said:
“It might be both.”
She stared at him.
“What do you mean?”
“It might be a member of the family—and, at the same time, a stranger .?.?. You do not seewhat I mean? Eh bien, it is an idea that has occurred to the mind of Hercule Poirot.”
He looked at her.
“Well, madame, what am I to say to Mr. Lee?”
Lydia raised her hands and let them fall in a sudden helpless gesture.
She said:
“Of course—you must accept.”
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