She paused significantly.
“Well?”
Caroline brought out her climax triumphantly. She hissed in the most approved style—aided by the fortunate number of s’s at her disposal.
“Miss Russell!”
She sat back in her chair and looked at me meaningly, and when Caroline looks at you meaningly, it is impossible to miss it.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, quite untruthfully. “Why shouldn’t Miss Russell consult me about her bad knee?”
“Bad knee,” said Caroline. “Fiddlesticks! No more bad knee than you and I. She was after something else.”
“What?” I asked.
Caroline had to admit that she didn’t know.
“But depend upon it, that was what he was trying to get at, M. Poirot, I mean. There’s something fishy about that woman, and he knows it.”