Mirelle looked at him with melting black eyes.
"I wished to be with the man I loved," she said simply. "Was it so unnatural?"
Poirot interpolated a question gently.
"Was it, then, at M. Kettering's wish that you accompanied him to Nice?"
Mirelle seemed to find a little difficulty in answering this. She hesitated perceptibly before she spoke. When she did, it was with a haughty indifference of manner.
"In such matters I please myself, Monsieur," she said.
That the answer was not an answer at all was noted by all three men. They said nothing.
"When were you first convinced that M. Kettering had murdered his wife?"
"As I tell you, Monsieur, I saw M. Kettering come out of his wife's compartment just before the train drew into Lyons. There was a look on his face—ah! at the moment I could not understand it—a look haunted and terrible. I shall never forget it."
Her voice rose shrilly, and she flung out her arms in an extravagant gesture.