“He says so—but who knows?”
“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot quietly, “if we are to work together, you and I, we must have things clear. First, I will ask you a question.”
“Yes, monsieur?”
“Are you aware of your mother’s real name?”
Marthe looked at him for a minute, then, letting her head fall forward on her arms, she burst into tears.
“There, there,” said Poirot, patting her on the shoulder. “Calm yourself, petite, I see that you know. Now a second question, did you know who M. Renauld was?”
“M. Renauld,” she raised her head from her hands and gazed at him wonderingly.
“Ah, I see you do not know that. Now listen to me carefully.”
Step by step, he went over the case, much as he had done to me on the day of our departure for England. Marthe listened spellbound. When he had finished, she drew a long breath.
“But you are wonderful—magnificent! You are the greatest detective in the world.”