When I emerged Poirot had descended the staircase and was standing in the hall. His eyes had a slightly green tinge. I had no clue to his excitement but I realized that he was excited.
Poirot said:
“That fall from the top of the stairs must have given your mistress a great shock. Did she seem perturbed about Bob and his ball after it?”
“It’s funny your saying that, sir. It worried her a lot. Why, just as she was dying, she was delirious and she rambled on a lot about Bob and his ball and something about a picture that was ajar.”
“A picture that was ajar,” said Poirot thoughtfully.
“Of course, it didn’t make sense, sir, but she was rambling, you see.”
“One moment—I must just go into the drawing room once more.”
He wandered round the room examining the ornaments. In especial, one big jar with a lid on it seemed to attract him. It was not, I fancy, a particularly good bit of china. A piece of Victorian humour—it had on it a rather crude picture of a bulldog sitting outside a front door with a mournful expression on its face. Below was written: Out all night and no key.
Poirot, whose taste I have always been convinced, is hopelessly Bourgeois, seemed lost in admiration.
“Out all night and no key,” he murmured. “It is amusing, that! Is that true of our Master Bob? Does he sometimes stay out all night?”
“Very occasional, sir. Oh, very occasional. He’s a very good dog, Bob is.”
“I am sure he is. But even the best of dogs—”
“Oh, it’s quite true, sir. Once or twice he’s gone off and come home perhaps at four in the morning. Then he sits down on the step and barks till he’s let in.”
“Who lets him in—Miss Lawson?”
“Well, anyone who hears him, sir. It was Miss Lawson, sir, last time. It was the night of the mistress’s accident. And Bob came home about five. Miss Lawson hurried down to let him in before he could make a noise. She was afraid of waking up the mistress and hadn’t told her Bob was missing for fear of worrying her.”
“I see. She thought it was better Miss Arundell shouldn’t be told?”
“That’s what she said, sir. She said, ‘He’s sure to come back. He always does, but she might worry and that would never do.’ So we didn’t say anything.”
“Was Bob fond of Miss Lawson?”
“Well, he was rather contemptuous of her if you know what I mean, sir. Dogs can be. She was kind to him. Called him a good doggie and a nice doggie, but he used to look at her kind of scornful like and he didn’t pay any attention at all to what she told him to do.”
Poirot nodded. “I see,” he said.
Suddenly he did something which startled me.
He pulled a letter from his pocket—the letter he had received this morning.
“Ellen,” he said, “do you know anything about this?”
The change that came over Ellen’s face was remarkable.
Her jaw dropped and she stared at Poirot with an almost comical expression of bewilderment.
“Well,” she ejaculated. “I never did!”
The observation lacked coherency, perhaps, but it left no doubt of Ellen’s meaning.
Gathering her wits about her she said slowly:
“Are you the gentleman that letter was written to then?”
“I am. I am Hercule Poirot.”