‘I apologize, madame. I walk softly.’
She said:
‘I thought it was Horbury.’
Hercule Poirot nodded.
‘It is true, he steps softly, that one—like a cat—or a thief.’
He paused a minute, watching her.
Her face showed nothing, but she made a slight grimace of distate as she said:
‘I have never cared for that man. I shall be glad to get rid of him.’
‘I think you will be wise to do so, madame.’
She looked at him quickly. She said:
‘What do you mean? Do you know anything against him?’
Poirot said:
‘He is a man who collects secrets—and uses them to his advantage.’
She said sharply:
‘Do you think he knows anything—about the murder?’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said:
‘He has quiet feet and long ears. He may have overheard something that he is keeping to himself.’
Lydia said clearly:
‘Do you mean that he may try to blackmail one of us?’
‘It is within the bounds of possibility. But that is not what I came here to say.’
‘What did you come to say?’
Poirot said slowly:
‘I have been talking with M. Alfred Lee. He has made me a proposition, and I wished to discuss it with you before accepting or declining it. But I was so struck by the picture you made—the charming pattern of your jumper against the deep red of the curtains, that I paused to admire.’
Lydia said sharply:
‘Really, M. Poirot, must we waste time in compliments?’
‘I beg your pardon, madame. So few English ladies understand la toilette. The dress you were wearing the first night I saw you, its bold but simple pattern, it had grace—distinction.’
Lydia said impatiently:
‘What was it you wanted to see me about??
??
Poirot became grave.