“That’s an ingenious idea,” said Sir Charles. His face, which had brightened, fell again. “But I don’t believe it will work. Babbington came into this room about four minutes before he was taken ill. During that time the only thing that passed his lips was half a cocktail—there was nothing in that cocktail—”
Poirot interrupted him.
“That you have already told me—but suppose, for the sake of argument, that there was something in that cocktail. Could it have been intended for Sir Bartholomew Strange and did Mr. Babbington drink it by mistake?”
Sir Charles shook his head.
“Nobody who knew Tollie at all well would have tried poisoning him in a cocktail.”
“Why?”
“Because he never drank them.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
Poirot made a gesture of annoyance.
“Ah—this business—it goes all wrong. It does not make sense….”
“Besides,” went on Sir Charles, “I don’t see how any one glass could have been mistaken for another—or anything of that kind. Temple carried them round on a tray and everyone helped themselves to any glass they fancied.”
“True,” murmured Poirot. “One cannot force a cocktail like one forces a card. What is she like, this Temple of yours? She is the maid who admitted me tonight—yes?”
“That’s right. I’ve had her three or four years—nice steady girl—knows her work. I don’t know where she came from—Miss Milray would know all about that.”
“Miss Milray, that is your secretary? The tall woman—somewhat of the Grenadier?”
“Very much of the Grenadier,” agreed Sir Charles.
“I have dined with you before on various occasions, but I do not think I met her until that night.”
“No, she doesn’t usually dine with us. It was a question of thirteen, you see.”
Sir Charles explained the circumstances, to which Poirot listened very attentively.
“It was her own suggestion that she should be present? I see.”
He remained lost in thought a minute, then he said:
“Might I speak to this parlourmaid of yours, this Temple?”
“Certainly, my dear fellow.”
Sir Charles pressed a bell. It was answered promptly.
“You rang, sir?”
Temple was a tall girl of thirty-two or three. She had a certain smartness—her hair was well brushed and glossy, but she was not pretty. Her manner was calm and efficient.
“M. Poirot wants to ask you a few questions,” said Sir Charles.
Temple transferred her superior gaze to Poirot.
“We are talking of the night when Mr. Babbington died here,” said Poirot. “You remember that night?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”