Lydia Lee stood by the far window of the drawing room looking out. Her figure was half hidden

by the heavy window curtains. A sound in the room made her turn with a start to see Hercule

Poirot 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.

Her face showed nothing, but she made a slight grimace² of distate as she said:

“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?”

Poirot shrugged³ his shoulders. He said:

“He has quiet feet and long ears. He may have overheard something that he is keeping to

himself.”

Lydia said clearly:

“Do you mean that he may try to blackmail⁴ one of us?”

“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 to

discuss 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 you

were wearing the first night I saw you, its bold but simple pattern, it had grace—distinction.”

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