Bella Tanios got up suddenly.
“No. No. I can’t do that. The children. Their father. I can’t. I simply can’t….”
“But madame—”
“I can’t, I tell you.”
Her voice rose almost to a scream. The door opened and Miss Lawson came in, her head cocked on one side with a sort of pleasurable excitement.
“May I come in? Have you had your little talk? Bella, my dear, don’t you think you ought to have a cup of tea, or some soup, or perhaps a little brandy even?”
Mrs. Tanios shook her head.
“I’m quite all right.” She gave a weak smile. “I must be getting back to the children. I have left them to unpack.”
“Dear little things,” said Miss Lawson. “I’m so fond of children.”
Mrs. Tanios turned to her suddenly.
“I don’t know what I should do without you,” she said. “You—you’ve been wonderfully kind.”
“There, there, my dear, don’t cry. Everything’s going to be all right. You shall come round and see my lawyer—such a nice man, so sympathetic, and he’ll advise you the best way to get a divorce. Divorce is so simple nowadays, isn’t it, everybody says so? Oh, dear, there’s the bell. I wonder who that is.”
She left the room hurriedly. There was a murmur of voices in the hall. Miss Lawson reappeared. She tiptoed in and shut the door carefully behind her. She spoke in an excited whisper, mouthing the words exaggeratedly.
“Oh, dear, Bella, it’s your husband. I’m sure I don’t know—”
Mrs. Tanios gave one bound towards a door at the other end of the room. Miss Lawson nodded her head violently.
“That’s right, dear, go in there, and then you can slip out when I’ve brought him in here.”
Mrs. Tanios whispered:
“Don’t say I’ve been here. Don’t say you’ve seen me.”
“No, no, of course I won’t.”
Mrs. Tanios slipped through the door. Poirot and I followed hastily. We found ourselves in a small dining room.
Poirot crossed to the door into the hall, opened it a crack and listened. Then he beckoned.
“All is clear. Miss Lawson has taken him into the other room.”
We crept through the hall and out by the front door. Poirot drew it to as noiselessly as possible after him.
Mrs. Tanios began to run down the steps, stumbling and clutching at the banisters. Poirot steadied her with a hand under her arm.
“Du calme—du calme. All is well.”
We reached the entrance hall.
“Come with me,” said Mrs. Tanios piteously. She looked as though she might be going to faint.
“Certainly I will come,” said Poirot reassuringly.
We crossed the road, turned a corner, and found ourselves in Queen’s Road. The Wellington was a small, inconspicuous hotel of the boardinghouse variety.
When we were inside Mrs. Tanios sank down on a plush sofa. Her hand was on her beating heart.