tears.
Poirot could not escape. She was upon him.
“M. Poirot. You’ve got to help me. I’m so miserable I don’t know what to do! Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?”
She looked up at him with a distracted face. Her fingers fastened on his coat sleeve. Then, as something she saw in his face alarmed her, she drew back a little.
“What—what is it?” she faltered.
“You want my advice, madame? It is that you ask?”
She stammered, “Yes . . . Yes. . . .”
“Eh bien—here it is.” He spoke curtly—trenchantly. “Leave this place at once—before it is too late.”
“What?” She stared at him.
“You heard me. Leave this island.”
“Leave the island?”
She stared at him stupefied.
“That is what I say.”
“But why—why?”
“It is my advice to you—if you value your life.”
She gave a gasp.
“Oh! what do you mean? You’re frightening me—you’re frightening me.”
“Yes,” said Poirot gravely, “that is my intention.”
She sank down, her face in her hands.
“But I can’t! He wouldn’t come! Douglas wouldn’t, I mean. She wouldn’t let him. She’s got hold of him—body and soul. He won’t listen to anything against her . . . He’s crazy about her . . . He believes everything she tells him—that her husband ill-treats her—that she’s an injured innocent—that nobody has ever understood her . . . He doesn’t even think about me any more—I don’t count—I’m not real to him. He wants me to give him his freedom—to divorce him. He believes that she’ll divorce her husband and marry him. But I’m afraid . . . Chantry won’t give her up. He’s not that kind of man. Last night she showed Douglas bruises on her arm—said her husband had done it. It made Douglas wild. He’s so chivalrous . . . Oh! I’m afraid! What will come of it all? Tell me what to do!”
Hercule Poirot stood looking straight across the water to the blue line of hills on the mainland of Asia. He said:
“I have told you. Leave the island before it is too late. . . .”
She shook her head.
“I can’t—I can’t—unless Douglas . . .”
Poirot sighed.
He shrugged his shoulders.
Four
Hercule Poirot sat with Pamela Lyall on the beach.
She said with a certain amount of gusto, “The triangle’s going strong! They sat one each side of her last night—glowering at each other! Chantry had had too much to drink. He was positively insulting to Douglas Gold. Gold behaved very well. Kept his temper. The Valentine woman enjoyed it, of course. Purred like the man-eating tiger she is. What do you think will happen?”
Poirot shook his head.