11 THE EVIDENCE OF MISS DEBENHAM
When Mary Debenham entered the dining-car she confirmed Poirot’s previous estimate of her. She was very neatly¹ dressed in a little black suit with a French grey shirt, and the smooth waves of her dark head were neat and unruffled. Her manner was as calm and unruffled as her hair.
She sat down opposite Poirot and M. Bouc and looked at them inquiringly.
“Your name is Mary Hermione Debenham and you are twenty-six years of age?” began Poirot.
“Yes.”
“English?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be so kind, Mademoiselle, as to write down your permanent address on this piece of paper?”
She complied. Her writing was clear and legible.
“And now, Mademoiselle, what have you to tell us of the affair last night?”
“I am afraid I have nothing to tell you. I went to bed and slept.”
“Does it distress² you very much, Mademoiselle, that a crime has been committed on this train?”
The question was clearly unexpected. Her grey eyes widened a little.
“I don’t quite understand you?”
“It was a perfectly³ simple question that I asked you, Mademoiselle. I will repeat it. Are you very much distressed⁴ that a crime should have been committed on this train?”
“I have not really thought about it from that point of view. No, I cannot say that I am at all distressed.”
“A crime—it is all in the day’s work to you, eh?”
“It is naturally an unpleasant thing to have happen,” said Mary Debenham quietly.
“You are very Anglo-Saxon, Mademoiselle. Vous n’éprouvez pas d’émotion.”
She smiled a little. “I am afraid I cannot have hysterics to prove my sensibility. After all, people die every day.”
“They die, yes. But murder is a little more rare.”
“Oh! certainly.”
“You were not acquainted with the dead man?”
“I saw him for the first time when lunching here yesterday.”
“And how did he strike you?”
“I hardly noticed him.”
“He did not impress you as an evil personality?”
She

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