“He wouldn’t think any such thing,” said Caroline.
“I was so cruel to him that night—so hard and bitter. I wouldn’t listen to what he was trying to say—wouldn’t believe that he really cared. I just stood there telling him what I thought of him, and saying the coldest, cruellest things that came into my mind—trying my best to hurt him.”
“Do him no harm,” said Caroline. “Never worry about what you say to a man. They’re so conceited that they never believe you mean it if it’s unflattering.”
Ursula went on nervously twisting and untwisting her hands.
“When the murder was discovered and he didn’t come forward, I was terribly upset. Just for a moment I wondered—but then I knew he couldn’t—he couldn’t. … But I wished he would come forward and say openly that he’d had nothing to do with it. I knew that he was fond of Dr. Sheppard, and I fancied that perhaps Dr. Sheppard might know where he was hiding.”
She turned to me.
“That’s why I said what I did to you that day. I thought, if you knew where he was, you might pass on the message to him.”
“I?” I exclaimed.
“Why should James know where he was?” demanded Caroline sharply.
“It was very unlikely, I know,” admitted Ursula, “but Ralph had often spoken of Dr. Sheppard, and I knew that he would be likely to consider him as his best friend in King’s Abbot.”
“My dear child,” I said, “I have not the least idea where Ralph Paton is at the present moment.”
“That is true enough,” said Poirot.
“But—” Ursula held out the newspaper cutting in a puzzled fashion.
“Ah! that,” said Poirot, slightly embarrassed; “a bagatelle, mademoiselle. A rien du tout. Not for a moment do I believe that Ralph Paton has been arrested.”
“But then—” began the girl slowly.
Poirot went on quickly: “There is one thing I should like to know—did Captain Paton wear shoes or boots that night?”
Ursula shook her head. “I can’t remember.”
“A pity! But how should you? Now, madame,” he smiled at her, his head on one side, his forefinger wagging eloquently, “no questions. And do not torment yourself. Be of good courage, and place your faith in Hercule Poirot.”
XXIII
Poirot’s Little Reunion
“And now,” said Caroline, rising, “that child is coming upstairs to lie down. Don’t you worry, my dear. M. Poirot will do everything he can for you—be sure of that.”
“I ought to go back to Fernly,” said Ursula uncertainly.
But Caroline silenced her protests with a firm hand.
“Nonsense. You’re in my hands for the time being. You’ll stay here for the present, anyway—eh, M. Poirot?”
“It will be the best plan,” agreed the little Belgian. “This evening I shall want mademoiselle—I beg her pardon, madame—to attend my little reunion. Nine o’clock at my house. It is most necessary that she should be there.”
Caroline nodded, and went with Ursula out of the room. The door shut behind them. Poirot dropped down into a chair again.
“So far, so good,” he said. “Things are straightening themselves out.”
“They’re getting to look blacker and blacker against Ralph Paton,” I observed gloomily.
Poirot nodded. “Yes, that is so. But it was to be expected, was it not?”
I looked at him, slightly puzzled by the remark. He was leaning back in the chair, his eyes half closed, the tips of his fingers just touching each other. Suddenly he sighed and shook his head.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It is that there are moments when a great longing for my friend Hastings comes over me. That is the friend of whom I spoke to you—the one who resides now in the Argentine. Always, when I have had a big case, he has been by my side. And he has helped me—yes, often he has helped me. For he had a knack, that one, of stumbling over the truth unawares—without noticing it himself, bien entendu. At times, he has said something particularly foolish, and behold that foolish remark has revealed the truth to me! And then, too, it was his practice to keep a written record of the cases that proved interesting.”
I gave a slightly embarrassed cough.
“As far as that goes,” I began, and then stopped.
Poirot sat upright in his chair. His eyes sparkled.
“But yes? What is it that you would say?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I’ve read some of Captain Hastings’s narratives, and I thought, why not try my hand at something of the same kind? Seemed a pity not to—unique opportunity—probably the only time I’ll be mixed up with anything of this kind.”
I felt myself getting hotter and hotter, and more and more incoherent, as I floundered through the above speech.
Poirot sprang from his chair. I had a moment’s terror that he was going to embrace me French fashion, but mercifully he refrained.
“But this is magnificent—you have then written down your impressions of the case as you went along?”
I nodded.
“Épatant!” cried Poirot. “Let me see them—this instant.”
I was not quite prepared for such a sudden demand. I racked my brains to remember certain details.
“I hope you won’t mind,” I stammered. “I may have been a little—er—personal now and then.”
“Oh! I comprehend perfectly; you have referred to me as comic—as, perhaps, ridiculous now and then? It matters not at all. Hastings, he also was not always polite. Me, I have the mind above such trivialities.”
Still somewhat doubtful, I rummaged in the drawers of my desk and produced an untidy pile of manuscript which I handed over to him. With an eye on possible publication in the future, I had divided the work into chapters, and the night before I had brought it up to date with an account of Miss Russell’s visit. Poirot had therefore twenty chapters.
I left him with them. I was obliged to go out to a case at some distance away and it was past eight o’clock when I got back, to be greeted with a plate of hot dinner on a tray, and the announcement that Poirot and my sister
