Poirot seldom used the key to his flat. Instead, in an old-fashioned manner, he pressed the bell andwaited for that admirable factotum1, George, to open the door. On this occasion, however, after hisvisit to the hospital, the door was opened to him by Miss Lemon.
“You’ve got two visitors,” said Miss Lemon, pitching her voice in an admirable tone, not ascarrying as a whisper but a good many notes lower than her usual pitch. “One’s Mr. Goby and theother is an old gentleman called Sir Roderick Horsefield. I don’t know which you want to seefirst.”
“Sir Roderick Horsefield,” mused2 Poirot. He considered this with his head on one side, lookingrather like a robin3 while he decided4 how this latest development was likely to affect the generalpicture. Mr. Goby, however, materialised with his usual suddenness from the small room whichwas sacred to Miss Lemon’s typewriting and where she had evidently kept him in storage.
Poirot removed his overcoat. Miss Lemon hung it up on the hall stand, and Mr. Goby, as washis fashion, addressed the back of Miss Lemon’s head.
“I’ll have a cup of tea in the kitchen with George,” said Mr. Goby. “My time is my own. I’llkeep.”
He disappeared obligingly into the kitchen. Poirot went into his sitting room where Sir Roderickwas pacing up and down full of vitality5.
“Run you down, my boy,” he said genially6. “Wonderful thing the telephone.”
“You remembered my name? I am gratified.”
“Well, I didn’t exactly remember your name,” said Sir Roderick. “Names, you know, havenever been my strong point. Never forget a face,” he ended proudly. “No. I rang up ScotlandYard.”
“Oh!” Poirot looked faintly startled, though reflecting that that was the sort of thing that SirRoderick would do.
“Asked me who I wanted to speak to. I said, put me on to the top. That’s the thing to do in life,my boy. Never accept second in charge. No good. Go to the top, that’s what I say. I said who Iwas, mind you. Said I wanted to speak to the top brass7 and I got on to it in the end. Very civilfellow. Told him I wanted the address of a chap in Allied8 Intelligence who was out with me at acertain place in France at a certain date. The chap seemed a bit at sea, so I said: ‘You know who Imean.’ A Frenchman, I said, or a Belgian. Belgian, weren’t you? I said: ‘He’s got a Christianname something like Achilles. It’s not Achilles,’ I said, ‘but it’s like Achilles. Little chap,’ I said,‘big moustaches.’ And then he seemed to catch on, and he said you’d be in the telephone book, hethought. I said that’s all right, but I said: ‘He won’t be listed under Achilles or Hercules (as he saidit was), will he? and I can’t remember his second name.’ So then he gave it me. Very civil sort offellow. Very civil, I must say.”
“I am delighted to see you,” said Poirot, sparing a hurried thought for what might be said to himlater by Sir Roderick’s telephone acquaintance. Fortunately it was not likely to have been quite thetop brass. It was presumably someone with whom he was already acquainted, and whose job itwas to produce civility on tap for distinguished9 persons of a bygone day.
“Anyway,” said Sir Roderick, “I got here.”
“I am delighted. Let me offer you some refreshment10. Tea, a grenadine, a whisky and soda11, somesirop de cassis—”
“Good lord, no,” said Sir Roderick, alarmed at the mention of sirop de cassis. “I’ll take whiskyfor choice. Not that I’m allowed it,” he added, “but doctors are all fools, as we know. All they carefor is stopping you having anything you’ve a fancy for.”
Poirot rang for George and gave him the proper instructions. The whisky and the siphon wereplaced at Sir Roderick’s elbow and George withdrew.
“Now,” said Poirot, “what can I do for you?”
“Got a job for you, old boy.”
After the lapse12 of time, he seemed even more convinced of the close liaison13 between him andPoirot in the past, which was as well, thought Poirot, since it would produce an even greaterdependence on his, Poirot’s, capabilities14 by Sir Roderick’s nephew.
“Papers,” said Sir Roderick, dropping his voice. “Lost some papers and I’ve got to find ’em,see? So I thought what with my eyes not being as good as they were, and the memory being a trifleoff-key sometimes, I’d better go to someone in the know. See? You came along in the nick of timethe other day, just in time to be useful, because I’ve got to cough ’em up, you understand.”
“It sounds most interesting,” said Poirot. “What are these papers, if I may ask?”
“Well, I suppose if you’re going to find them, you’ll have to ask, won’t you? Mind you, they’revery secret and confidential15. Top secret—or they were once. And it seems as though they aregoing to be again. An interchange of letters, it was. Not of any particular importance at the time—or it was thought they were of no importance; but then of course politics change. You know theway it is. They go round and face the other way. You know how it was when the war broke out.
None of us knew whether we were on our head or on our heels. One war we’re pals16 with theItalians, next war we’re enemies. I don’t know which of them all was the worst. First war theJapanese were our dear allies, and the next war there they are blowing up Pearl Harbor! Neverknew where you were! Start one way with the Russians, and finish the opposite way. I tell you,Poirot, nothing’s more difficult nowadays than the question of allies. They can change overnight.”
“And you have lost some papers,” said Poirot, recalling the old man to the subject of his visit.
“Yes. I’ve got a lot of papers, you know, and I’ve dug ’em out lately. I had ’em put away safely.
In a bank, as a matter of fact, but I got ’em all out and I began sorting through them because Ithought why not write my memoirs17. All the chaps are doing it nowadays. We’ve had Montgomeryand Alanbrooke and Auchinleck all shooting their mouths off in print, mostly saying what theythought of the other generals. We’ve even had old Moran, a respectable physician, blabbing abouthis important patient. Don’t know what things will come to next! Anyway, there it is, and Ithought I’d be quite interested myself in telling a few facts about some people I knew! Whyshouldn’t I have a go as well as everyone else? I was in it all.”
“I am sure it could be a matter of much interest to people,” said Poirot.
“Ah-ha, yes! One knew a lot of people in the news. Everyone looked at them with awe18. Theydidn’t know they were complete fools, but I knew. My goodness, the mistakes some of those brasshats made—you’d be surprised. So I got out my papers, and I had the little girl help me sort ’emout. Nice little girl, that, and quite bright. Doesn’t know English very well, but apart from that,she’s very bright and helpful. I’d salted away a lot of stuff, but everything was in a bit of amuddle. The point of the whole thing is, the papers I wanted weren’t there.”
“Weren’t there?”
“No. We thought we’d given it a miss by mistake to begin with, but we went over it again and Ican tell you, Poirot, a lot of stuff seemed to me to have been pinched. Some of it wasn’t important.
Actually, the stuff I was looking for wasn’t particularly important—I mean, nobody had thought itwas, otherwise I suppose I shouldn’t have been allowed to keep it. But anyway, these particularletters weren’t there.”
“I wish of course to be discreet,” said Poirot, “but can you tell me at all the nature of theseletters you refer to?”
“Don’t know that I can, old boy. The nearest I can go is of somebody who’s shooting off hismouth nowadays about what he did and what he said in the past. But he’s not speaking the truth,and these letters just show exactly how much of a liar19 he is! Mind you, I don’t suppose they’d bepublished now. We’ll just send him nice copies of them, and tell him this is exactly what he didsay at the time, and that we’ve got it in writing. I shouldn’t be surprised if—well, things went a bitdifferently after that. See? I hardly need ask that, need I? You’re familiar with all that kind oftalky-talky.”
“You’re quite right, Sir Roderick. I know exactly the kind of thing you mean, but you see alsothat it is not easy to help you recover something if one does not know what that something is, andwhere it is likely to be now.”
“First things first: I want to know who pinched ’em, because you see that’s the important point.
There may be more top secret stuff in my little collection, and I want to know who’s tamperingwith it.”
“Have you any ideas yourself?”
“You think I ought to have, heh?”
“Well, it would seem that the principal possibility—”
“I know. You want me to say it’s the little girl. Well, I don’t think it is the little girl. She saysshe didn’t, and I believe her. Understand?”
“Yes,” said Poirot with a slight sigh, “I understand.”
“For one thing she’s too young. She wouldn’t know these things were important. It’s before hertime.”
“Someone else might have instructed her as to that,” Poirot pointed20 out.
“Yes, yes, that’s true enough. But it’s too obvious as well.”
Poirot sighed. He doubted if it was any use insisting in view of Sir Roderick’s obviouspartiality. “Who else had access?”
“Andrew and Mary, of course, but I doubt if Andrew would even be interested in such things.
Anyway, he’s always been a very decent boy. Always was. Not that I’ve ever known him verywell. Used to come for the holidays once or twice with his brother and that’s about all. Of course,he ditched his wife, and went off with an attractive bit of goods to South Africa, but that mighthappen to any man, especially with a wife like Grace. Not that I ever saw much of her, either.
Kind of woman who looked down her nose and was full of good works. Anyway you can’timagine a chap like Andrew being a spy. As for Mary, she seems all right. Never looks at anythingbut a rose bush as far as I can make out. There’s a gardener but he’s eighty-three and has lived inthe village all his life, and there are a couple of women always dodging21 about the house making anoise with Hoovers, but I can’t see them in the role of spies either. So you see it’s got to be anoutsider. Of course Mary wears a wig22,” went on Sir Roderick rather inconsequently. “I mean itmight make you think she was a spy because she wore a wig, but that’s not the case. She lost herhair in a fever when she was eighteen. Pretty bad luck for a young woman. I’d no idea she wore awig to begin with but a rose bush caught in her hair one day and whisked it sideways. Yes, verybad luck.”
“I thought there was something a little odd about the way she had arranged her hair,” saidPoirot.
“Anyway, the best secret agents never wear wigs,” Sir Roderick informed him. “Poor devilshave to go to plastic surgeons and get their faces altered. But someone’s been mucking about withmy private papers.”
“You don’t think that you may perhaps have placed them in some different container—in adrawer or a different file. When did you see them last?”
“I handled these things about a year ago. I remember I thought then, they’d make rather goodcopy, and I noted23 those particular letters. Now they’re gone. Somebody’s taken them.”
“You do not suspect your nephew Andrew, his wife or the domestic staff. What about thedaughter?”
“Norma? Well Norma’s a bit off her onion, I’d say. I mean she might be one of thosekleptomaniacs who take people’s things without knowing they’re taking them but I don’t see herfumbling about among my papers.”
“Then what do you think?”
“Well, you’ve been in the house. You saw what the house is like. Anyone can walk in and outanytime they like. We don’t lock our doors. We never have.”
“Do you lock the door of your own room—if you go up to London, for instance?”
“I never thought of it as necessary. I do now of course, but what’s the use of that? Too late.
Anyway, I’ve only an ordinary key, fits any of the doors. Someone must have come in fromoutside. Why nowadays that’s how all the burglaries take place. People walk in in the middle ofthe day, stump24 up the stairs, go into any room they like, rifle the jewel box, go out again, andnobody sees them or cares who they are. They probably look like mods or rockers or beatniks orwhatever they call these chaps nowadays with the long hair and the dirty nails. I’ve seen more thanone of them prowling about. One doesn’t like to say ‘Who the devil are you?’ You never knowwhich sex they are, which is embarrassing. The place crawls with them. I suppose they’re Norma’sfriends. Wouldn’t have been allowed in the old days. But you turn them out of the house, and thenyou find out it’s Viscount Endersleigh or Lady Charlotte Marjoribanks. Don’t know where you arenowadays.” He paused. “If anyone can get to the bottom of it, you can, Poirot.” He swallowed thelast mouthful of whisky and got up.
“Well, that’s that. It’s up to you. You’ll take it on, won’t you?”
“I will do my best,” said Poirot.
The front-door bell rang.
“That’s the little girl,” said Sir Roderick. “Punctual to the minute. Wonderful, isn’t it? Couldn’tgo about London without her, you know. Blind as a bat. Can’t see to cross the road.”
“Can you not have glasses?”
“I’ve got some somewhere, but they’re always falling off my nose or else I lose them. Besides, Idon’t like glasses. I’ve never had glasses. When I was sixty-five I could see to read without glassesand that’s pretty good.”
“Nothing,” said Hercule Poirot, “lasts forever.”
George ushered25 in Sonia. She was looking extremely pretty. Her slightly shy manner becameher very well, Poirot thought. He moved forward with Gallic empressement.
“Enchanté, Mademoiselle,” he said, bowing over her hand.
“I’m not late, am I, Sir Roderick,” she said, looking past him. “I have not kept you waiting.
Please I hope not.”
“Exactly to the minute, little girl,” said Sir Roderick. “All shipshape and Bristol fashion,” headded.
Sonia looked slightly perplexed26.
“Made a good tea, I hope,” Sir Roderick went on. “I told you, you know, to have a good tea,buy yourself some buns or éclairs or whatever it is young ladies like nowadays, eh? You obeyedorders, I hope.”
“No, not exactly. I took the time to buy a pair of shoes. Look, they are pretty, are they not?” Shestuck out a foot.
It was certainly a very pretty foot. Sir Roderick beamed at it.
“Well, we must go and catch our train,” he said. “I may be old-fashioned but I’m all for trains.
Start to time and get there on time, or they should do. But these cars, they get in a queue in therush hour and you may idle the time away for about an hour and a half more than you need. Cars!
Pah!”
“Shall I ask Georges to get you a taxi?” asked Hercule Poirot. “It will be no trouble, I assureyou.”
“I have a taxi already waiting,” said Sonia.
“There you are,” said Sir Roderick, “you see, she thinks of everything.” He patted her on theshoulder. She looked at him in a way that Hercule Poirot fully27 appreciated.
Poirot accompanied them to the hall door and took a polite leave of them. Mr. Goby had comeout of the kitchen and was standing28 in the hall giving, it could be said, an excellent performance ofa man who had come to see about the gas.
George shut the hall door as soon as they had disappeared into the lift, and turned to meetPoirot’s gaze.
“And what is your opinion of that young lady, Georges, may I ask?” said Poirot. On certainpoints he always said George was infallible.
“Well, sir,” said George, “if I might put it that way, if you’ll allow me, I would say he’d got itbadly, sir. All over her as you might say.”
“I think you are right,” said Hercule Poirot.
“It’s not unusual of course with gentlemen of that age. I remember Lord Mountbryan. He’d hada lot of experience in his life and you’d say he was as fly as anyone. But you’d be surprised. Ayoung woman as came to give him massage29. You’d be surprised at what he gave her. An eveningfrock, and a pretty bracelet30. Forget-me-nots, it was. Turquoise31 and diamonds. Not too expensivebut costing quite a pretty penny all the same. Then a fur wrap—not mink32, Russian ermine, and apetty point evening bag. After that her brother got into trouble, debt or something, though whethershe ever had a brother I sometimes wondered. Lord Mountbryan gave her the money to square it—she was so upset about it! All platonic33, mind you, too. Gentlemen seem to lose their sense thatway when they get to that age. It’s the clinging ones they go for, not the bold type.”
“I have no doubt that you are quite right, Georges,” said Poirot. “It is all the same not acomplete answer to my question. I asked what you thought of the young lady.”
“Oh, the young lady…Well, sir, I wouldn’t like to say definitely, but she’s quite a definite type.
There’s never anything that you could put your finger on. But they know what they’re doing, I’dsay.”
Poirot entered his sitting room and Mr. Goby followed him, obeying Poirot’s gesture. Mr. Gobysat down on an upright chair in his usual attitude. Knees together, toes turned in. He took a ratherdog-eared little notebook from his pocket, opened it carefully and then proceeded to survey thesoda water siphon severely34.
“Re the backgrounds you asked me to look up.
“Restarick family, perfectly35 respectable and of good standing. No scandal. The father, JamesPatrick Restarick, said to be a sharp man over a bargain. Business has been in the family threegenerations. Grandfather founded it, father enlarged it, Simon Restarick kept it going. SimonRestarick had coronary trouble two years ago, health declined. Died of coronary thrombosis, abouta year ago.
“Young brother Andrew Restarick came into the business soon after he came down fromOxford, married Miss Grace Baldwin. One daughter, Norma. Left his wife and went out to SouthAfrica. A Miss Birell went with him. No divorce proceedings36. Mrs. Andrew Restarick died twoand a half years ago. Had been an invalid37 for some time. Miss Norma Restarick was a boarder atMeadowfield Girls’ School. Nothing against her.”
Allowing his eyes to sweep across Hercule Poirot’s face, Mr. Goby observed, “In facteverything about the family seems quite OK and according to Cocker.”
“No black sheep, no mental instability?”
“It doesn’t appear so.”
“Disappointing,” said Poirot.
Mr. Goby let this pass. He cleared his throat, licked his finger, and turned over a leaf of his littlebook.
“David Baker38. Unsatisfactory record. Been on probation39 twice. Police are inclined to beinterested in him. He’s been on the fringe of several rather dubious40 affairs, thought to have beenconcerned in an important art robbery but no proof. He’s one of the arty lot. No particular meansof subsistence but he does quite well. Prefers girls with money. Not above living on some of thegirls who are keen on him. Not above being paid off by their fathers either. Thorough bad lot ifyou ask me but enough brains to keep himself out of trouble.”
Mr. Goby shot a sudden glance at Poirot.
“You met him?”
“Yes,” said Poirot.
“What conclusions did you form, if I may ask?”
“The same as you,” said Poirot. “A gaudy41 creature,” he added thoughtfully.
“Appeals to women,” said Mr. Goby. “Trouble is nowadays they won’t look twice at a nicehardworking lad. They prefer the bad lots—the scroungers. They usually say ‘he hasn’t had achance, poor boy.’”
“Strutting about like peacocks,” said Poirot.
“Well, you might put it like that,” said Mr. Goby, rather doubtfully.
“Do you think he’d use a cosh on anyone?”
Mr. Goby thought, then very slowly shook his head at the electric fire.
“Nobody’s accused him of anything like that. I don’t say he’d be past it, but I wouldn’t say itwas his line. He is a smooth-spoken type, not one for the rough stuff.”
“No,” said Poirot, “no, I should not have thought so. He could be bought off? That was youropinion?”
“He’d drop any girl like a hot coal if it was made worth his while.”
Poirot nodded. He was remembering something. Andrew Restarick turning a cheque towardshim so that he could read the signature on it. It was not only the signature that Poirot had read, itwas the person to whom the cheque was made out. It had been made out to David Baker and it wasfor a large sum. Would David Baker demur42 at taking such a cheque, Poirot wondered. He thoughtnot on the whole. Mr. Goby clearly was of that opinion. Undesirable43 young men had been boughtoff in any time or age, so had undesirable young women. Sons had sworn and daughters had weptbut money was money. To Norma, David had been urging marriage. Was he sincere? Could it bethat he really cared for Norma? If so, he would not be so easily paid off. He had sounded genuineenough. Norma no doubt believed him genuine. Andrew Restarick and Mr. Goby and HerculePoirot thought differently. They were very much more likely to be right.
Mr. Goby cleared his throat and went on.
“Miss Claudia Reece-Holland? She’s all right. Nothing against her. Nothing dubious, that is.
Father a Member of Parliament, well off. No scandals. Not like some MPs we’ve heard about.
Educated Roedean, Lady Margaret Hall, came down and did a secretarial course. First secretary toa doctor in Harley Street, then went to the Coal Board. First-class secretary. Has been secretary toMr. Restarick for the last two months. No special attachments44, just what you’d call minorboyfriends. Eligible45 and useful if she wants a date. Nothing to show there’s anything between herand Restarick. I shouldn’t say there is, myself. Has had a flat in Borodene Mansions46 for the lastthree years. Quite a high rent there. She usually has two other girls sharing it, no special friends.
They come and go. Young lady, Frances Cary, the second girl, has been there some time. Was atRADA for a time, then went to the Slade. Works for the Wedderburn Gallery—well-known placein Bond Street. Specialises in arranging art shows in Manchester, Birmingham, sometimes abroad.
Goes to Switzerland and Portugal. Arty type and has a lot of friends amongst artists and actors.”
He paused, cleared his throat and gave a brief look at the little notebook.
“Haven’t been able to get much from South Africa yet. Don’t suppose I shall. Restarick movedabout a lot. Kenya, Uganda, Gold Coast, South America for a while. He just moved about.
Restless chap. Nobody seems to have known him particularly well. He’d got plenty of money ofhis own to go where he liked. He made money, too, quite a lot of it. Liked going to out of the wayplaces. Everyone who came across him seems to have liked him. Just seems as though he was aborn wanderer. He never kept in touch with anyone. Three times I believe he was reported dead—gone off into the bush and not turned up again—but he always did in the end. Five or six monthsand he’d pop up in some entirely47 different place or country.
“Then last year his brother in London died suddenly. They had a bit of trouble in tracing him.
His brother’s death seemed to give him a shock. Perhaps he’d had enough, and perhaps he’d metthe right woman at last. Good bit younger than him, she was, and a teacher, they say. The steadykind. Anyway he seems to have made up his mind then and there to chuck wandering about, andcome home to England. Besides being a very rich man himself, he’s his brother’s heir.”
“A success story and an unhappy girl,” said Poirot. “I wish I knew more about her. You haveascertained for me all that you could, the facts I needed. The people who surrounded that girl, whomight have influenced her, who perhaps did influence her. I wanted to know something about herfather, her stepmother, the boy she is in love with, the people she lived with, and worked for inLondon. You are sure that in connection with this girl there have been no deaths? That isimportant—”
“Not a smell of one,” said Mr. Goby. “She worked for a firm called Homebirds—on the vergeof bankruptcy48, and they didn’t pay her much. Stepmother was in hospital for observation recently— in the country, that was. A lot of rumours49 flying about, but they didn’t seem to come toanything.”
“She did not die,” said Poirot. “What I need,” he added in a bloodthirsty manner, “is a death.”
Mr. Goby said he was sorry about that and rose to his feet. “Will there be anything more you arewanting at present?”
“Not in the nature of information.”
“Very good, sir.” As he replaced his notebook in his pocket, Mr. Goby said: “You’ll excuse me,sir, if I’m speaking out of turn, but that young lady you had here just now—”
“Yes, what about her?”
“Well, of course it’s—I don’t suppose it’s anything to do with this, but I thought I might justmention it to you, sir—”
“Please do. You have seen her before, I gather?”
“Yes. Couple of months ago.”
“Where did you see her?”
“Kew Gardens.”
“Kew Gardens?” Poirot looked slightly surprised.
“I wasn’t following her. I was following someone else, the person who met her.”
“And who was that?”
“I don’t suppose as it matters mentioning it to you, sir. It was one of the junior attachés of theHertzogovinian Embassy.”
Poirot raised his eyebrows50. “That is interesting. Yes, very interesting. Kew Gardens,” he mused.
“A pleasant place for a rendezvous51. Very pleasant.”
“I thought so at the time.”
“They talked together?”
“No, sir, you wouldn’t have said they knew each other. The young lady had a book with her.
She sat down on a seat. She read the book for a little then she laid it down beside her. Then mybloke came and sat there on the seat also. They didn’t speak—only the young lady got up andwandered away. He just sat there and presently he gets up and walks off. He takes with him thebook that the young lady has left behind. That’s all, sir.”
“Yes,” said Poirot. “It is very interesting.”
Mr. Goby looked at the bookcase and said good night to it. He went.
Poirot gave an exasperated52 sigh.
“Enfin,” he said, “it is too much! There is far too much. Now we have espionage53 andcounterespionage. All I am seeking is one perfectly simple murder. I begin to suspect that thatmurder only occurred in a drug addict’s brain!”
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factotum
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mused
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robin
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decided
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vitality
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genially
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brass
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allied
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distinguished
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refreshment
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soda
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lapse
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liaison
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capabilities
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pals
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memoirs
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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massage
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| n.按摩，揉；vt.按摩，揉，美化，奉承，篡改数据 | |
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bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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turquoise
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| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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mink
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| n.貂，貂皮 | |
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platonic
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| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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espionage
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| n.间谍行为，谍报活动 | |
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