being held in memory of my dear wife--Iris--who
died exactly four years ago on this very date!"
YELLOW IRIS
1 15
There was a startled movement round the table.
Barton Russell, his face quietly impassive, raised
his glass.
I'll ask you to drink to her memory. Iris!"
"Iris?" said Poirot sharply.
He looked at the flowers. Barton Russell caught
his glance and gently nodded his head.
There were little murmurs round the table.
"Iris--Iris "
Everyone
looked startled and uncomfortable. Barton
Russell went on, speaking with his slow monotonous
American intonation, each word coming
out weightily.
"It
may seem odd to you all that I should celebrate
the anniversary of a death in this way--by a supper
party in a fashionable restaurant. But I have
a reason--yes, I have a reason. For M. Poirot's
benefit, I'll explain."
He
turned his head towards Poirot.
"Four
years ago tonight, M. Poirot, there was a supper
party held in New York. At it were my wife and
myself, Mr. Stephen Carter who was attached to