“We must depart. We are returning to London. And you, mademoiselle, you are remaining down here some little time?”
“No—no… I have really no settled plans. Actually I’m going back myself today… I only came down just for a night to—to settle things a little.”
“I see. Well, good-bye, mademoiselle, and forgive me if I have upset you at all.”
“Oh, M. Poirot. Upset me? I feel quite ill! Oh dear—Oh, dear, it’s such a wicked world! Such a dreadfully wicked world.”
Poirot cut short her lamentations by taking her hand firmly in his.
“Quite so. And you are still ready to swear that you saw Theresa Arundell kneeling on the stairs on the night of Easter Bank Holiday?”
“Oh, yes, I can swear to that.”
“And you can also swear that you saw a halo of light round Miss Arundell’s head during the séance?”
Miss Lawson’s mouth fell open.
“Oh, M. Poirot, don’t—don’t joke about these things.”
“I am not joking. I am perfectly serious.”
Miss Lawson said with dignity:
“It wasn’t exactly a halo. It was more like the beginning of a manifestation. A ribbon of some luminous material. I think it was beginning to form into a face.”
“Extremely interesting. Au revoir, mademoiselle, and please keep all this to yourself.”
“Oh, of course—of course. I shouldn’t dream of doing anything else….”
The last we saw of Miss Lawson was her rather sheeplike face gazing after us from the front doorstep.
; Twenty-three
DR. TANIOS CALLS ON US
No sooner had we left the house than Poirot’s manner changed. His face was grim and set.
“Dépêchons nous, Hastings,” he said. “We must get back to London as soon as possible.”
“I’m willing.” I quickened my pace to suit his. I stole a look at his grave face.
“Who do you suspect, Poirot?” I asked. “I wish you’d tell me. Do you believe it was Theresa Arundell on the stairs or not?”
Poirot did not reply to my questions. Instead he asked a question of his own.
“Did it strike you—reflect before you answer—did it strike you that there was something wrong with that statement of Miss Lawson’s?”
“How do you mean—wrong with it?”
“If I knew that I should not be asking you!”
“Yes, but wrong in what way?”
“That is just it. I cannot be precise. But as she was talking I had, somehow, a feeling of unreality…as though there was something—some small point that was wrong—that was, yes, that was the feeling—something that was impossible.…”
“She seemed quite positive it was Theresa!”