card in hand, she departed to summon her
mistress.
Hercule Poirot looked round him. The room
was a perfectly conventional drawing room--oatmeal-colored
paper with a frieze round the top, indeterminate
cretonnes, rose-colored cushions and
curtains, a good many china knick-knacks and ornaments.
There was nothing in the room that
stood out, that announced a definite personality.
Suddenly Poirot, who was very sensitive, felt
eyes watching him. He wheeled round. A girl was
standing in the entrance of the French window--a
small, sallow girl, with very black hair and suspicious
eyes.
She came in, and as Poirot made a little bow she
burst out abruptly, "Why have you come?"
Poirot did not reply. He merely raised his eyebrows.
"You are not a lawyer--no?" Her English was
HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?
61
good, but not for a minute would anyone have
taken her to be English.
"Why should I be a lawyer, mademoiselle?"
The girl stared at him sullenly. "I thought you
might be. I thought you had come perhaps to say
that she did not know what she was doing. I have
heard of such things--the not due influence; that
is what they call it, no? But that is not right. She
wanted me to have the money, and I shall have it.
If it is needful I shall have a lawyer of my own.