Mr. McNeil rose.
"Well, Monsieur Poirot, shall I leave you for a little conversation with Miss Monro?"
"You are too amiable. But stay—a little idea presents itself to me. The hour of the déjeuner approaches. Mademoiselle will perhaps honour me by coming out to luncheon with me?"
Miss Monro's eyes glistened. It struck me that she was in exceedingly low water, and that the chance of a square meal was not to be despised.
A few minutes later saw us all in a taxi, bound for one of London's most expensive restaurants. Once arrived there, Poirot ordered a most delectable lunch, and then turned to his guest.
"And for wine, mademoiselle? What do you say to champagne?"
Miss Monro said nothing—or everything.
The meal started pleasantly. Poirot replenished the lady's glass with thoughtful assiduity, and gradually slid on to the topic nearest his heart.
"The poor Mr. Darrell. What a pity he is not with us."
"Yes, indeed," sighed Miss Monro. "Poor boy, I do wonder what's become of him."