The money is mine. She wrote it down so, and so it
shall be." She looked ugly, her chin thrust out,
her eyes gleaming.
The door opened and a tall woman entered and
said, "Katrina."
The girl shrank, flushed, muttered something
and went out through the window.
Poirot turned to face the newcomer who had
so effectually dealt with the situation by uttering
a single word. There had been authority in her
voice, and contempt and a shade of well-bred
irony. He realized at once that this was the owner
of the house, Mary Delafontaine.
"M. Poirot? I wrote to you. You cannot have
received my letter."
"Alas, I have been away from London."
"Oh, I see; that explains it. I must introduce
myself. My name is Delafontaine. This is my hus-band.
Miss Barrowby was my aunt."
Mr. Delafontaine had entered so quietly that his
arrival had passed unnoticed. He was a tall man
with grizzled hair and an indeterminate manner.
He had a nervous way of fingering his chin. He
looked often toward his wife, and it was plain that
62
Agatha Christie
he expected her to take the lead in any conversa-tion.
"I much regret that I intrude in the midst of
your bereavement," said Hercule Poirot.
"I quite realize that it is not your fault," said