"Hello, Katherine," said Lenox. "I say—what is the matter?"
"Nothing," said Katherine, grabbing up Miss Viner's letter and thrusting it into her handbag.
"You looked rather queer," said Lenox. "I say—I hope you don't mind—I rang up your detective friend, M. Poirot, and asked him to lunch with us in Nice. I said you wanted to see him, as I thought he might not come for me."
"Did you want to see him then?" asked Katherine.
"Yes," said Lenox. "I have rather lost my heart to him. I never met a man before whose eyes were really green like a cat's."
"All right," said Katherine. She spoke listlessly. The last few days had been trying. Derek Kettering's arrest had been the topic of the hour, and the Blue Train Mystery had been thrashed out from every conceivable standpoint.
"I have ordered the car," said Lenox, "and I have told Mother some lie or other—unfortunately I can't remember exactly what; but it won't matter, as she never remembers. If she knew where we were going, she would want to come too, to pump M. Poirot."
The two girls arrived at the Negresco to find Poirot waiting.
He was full of Gallic politeness, and showered so many compliments upon the two girls that they were soon helpless with laughter; yet for all that the meal was not a gay one. Katherine was dreamy and distracted, and Lenox made bursts of conversation, interspersed by silences. As they were sitting on the terrace sipping their coffee she suddenly attacked Poirot bluntly.
"How are things going? You know what I mean?"