“Monsieur Poirot and Captain Hastings,” announced the butler.
Lady Yardly looked up with a start, her husband came forward uncertainly, his eyes seeking instruction from Poirot. The little man was equal to the occasion.
“All my excuses! It is that I investigate still this affair of Miss Marvell’s. She comes to you on Friday, does she not? I make a little tour first to make sure that all is secure. Also I wanted to ask of Lady Yardly if she recollected at all the postmarks on the letters she received?”
Lady Yardly shook her head regretfully. “I’m afraid I don’t. It is stupid of me. But, you see, I never dreamt of taking them seriously.”
“You’ll stay the night?” said Lord Yardly.
“Oh, milord, I fear to incommode you. We have left our bags at the inn.”
“That’s all right.” Lord Yardly had his cue. “We’ll send down for them. No, no—no trouble, I assure you.”
Poirot permitted himself to be persuaded, and sitting down by Lady Yardly, began to make friends with the children. In a short time they were all romping together, and had dragged me into the game.
“Vous êtes bonne mère,” said Poirot, with a gallant little bow, as the children were removed reluctantly by a stern nurse.
Lady Yardly smoothed her ruffled hair.