II
Miss Lemon, always efficient, had preceded him to the street, and was waiting by a taxi. She askedno questions and displayed no curiosity. She did not tell Poirot how she would occupy her timewhilst he was away. She did not need to tell him. She always knew what she was going to do andshe was always right in what she did.
Poirot duly arrived at the corner of Calthorpe Street. He descended¹, paid the taxi, and lookedaround him. He saw The Merry Shamrock but he saw no one in its vicinity who looked at all likeMrs. Oliver, however well disguised. He walked to the end of the street and back. No Mrs. Oliver.
So either the couple in which they were interested had left the café and Mrs. Oliver had gone on ashadowing expedition, or else—To answer “or else” he went to the café door. One could not seethe² inside very well from the outside, on account of steam, so he pushed the door gently open andentered. His eyes swept round it.
He saw at once the girl who had come to visit him at the breakfast table. She was sitting byherself at a table against the wall. She was smoking a cigarette and staring in front of her. Sheseemed to be lost in thought. No, Poirot thought, hardly that. There did not seem to be any thoughtthere. She was lost in a kind of oblivion. She was somewhere else.
He crossed the room quietly and sat down in the chair opposite her. She looked up then, and hewas at least gratified to see that he was recognised.
“So we meet again, Mademoiselle,” he said pleasantly. “I see you recognise me.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“It is always gratifying to be recognised by a young lady one has only met once and for a veryshort time.”
She continued to look at him without speaking.
“And how did you know me, may I ask? What made you recognise me?”
“Your moustache,” said Norma immediately. “It couldn’t be anyone else.”
He was gratified by that observation and stroked it with the pride and vanity that he was apt todisplay on these occasions.
“Ah yes, very true. Yes, there are not many moustaches such as mine. It is a fine one, hein?”
“Yes—well, yes—I suppose it is.”
“Ah, you are perhaps not a connoisseur³ of moustaches, but I can tell you, Miss Restarick—MissNorma Restarick, is it not?—that it is a very fine moustache.”
He had dwelt

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