up her fair coloring. She was a singularly lovely
woman, and there was about her a aimple childlike
candor which made her charm quit irresistible.
"Alice Chatterton is so kind," she said. "She
arranged this. She said you would help me, M.
Poirot. Of course I don't know whether you will
or not--but I hope you will."
She had held out her hand and P oirot had taken
it. He held it now for a moment cr two while he
stood scrutinizing her closely. There was nothing
ill-bred in his manner of doing it. It was more the
kind but searching look that a fanaous consultant
gives a new patient as the latter is shered into his
presence.
"Are you ,Jure, madame," he said at last, "that
I can help you?"
"Alice says so."
"Yes, but I am asking you, madame."
A little flush rose to her cheeks.
"I don't know what you mean."
"What is it, madame, that you want me to do?"
"You--you--know who I am?" she asked.
"Assuredly."
"Then you can guess what it is I am asking
you to do, M. Poirot--Captain Hastings"--I was
36
Agatha Christie
gratified that she realized my identity--"Major
Rich did not kill my husband."
"Why not?"