than usual. In her hand she held a telegram which she handed to Poirot.
'There,' she said. 'I hope that will please you!' Poirot read it aloud. 'Arrive 5.30 today. Maggie.'
'My nurse and guardian!' said Nick. 'But you're wrong, you know. Maggie's got no kind of brains. Good works is about all she's fit for. That and never seeing the point of jokes. Freddie would be ten times better at spotting hidden assassins. And Jim Lazarus would be better still. I never feel one has got to the bottom of Jim.'
'And the Commander Challenger?'
'Oh! George! He'd never see anything till it was under his nose. But he'd let them have it when he did see. Very useful when it came to a show-down, George would be.'
She tossed off her hat and went on: 'I gave orders for the man you wrote about to be let in. It sounds mysterious. Is he installing a dictaphone or something like that?'
Poirot shook his head.
'No, no, nothing scientific. A very simple little matter of opinion, Mademoiselle. Something I wanted to know.'
'Oh, well,' said Nick. 'It's all great fun, isn't it?' 'Is it, Mademoiselle?' asked Poirot, gently.
She stood for a minute with her back to us, looking out of the window. Then she turned. All the brave defiance had gone out of her face. It was childishly twisted awry, as she struggled to keep back the tears.
'No,' she said. 'It-it isn't, really. I'm afraid-I'm afraid. Hideously afraid. And I always thought I was brave.'
'So you are, mon enfant, so you are. Both Hastings and I, we have both admired your courage.'
'Yes, indeed,' I put in warmly.
'No,' said Nick, shaking her head. 'I'm not brave. It's-it's the waiting. Wondering the whole time if anything more's going to happen. And how it'll happen! And expecting it to happen.'
'Yes, yes-it is the strain.'
'Last night I pulled my bed out into the middle of the room. And fastened my window and bolted my door. When I came here this morning, I came round by the road. I couldn't-I simply couldn't come through the garden. It's as though my nerve had gone all of a sudden. It's this thing coming on top of everything else.'
'What do you mean exactly by that, Mademoiselle? On top of everything else?' There was a momentary pause before she replied.
'I don't mean anything particular. What the newspapers call “the strain of modern life”, I suppose. Too many cocktails, too many cigarettes-all that sort of thing. It's just that I've got into a ridiculous-sort of-of state.'
She had sunk into a chair and was sitting there, her small fingers curling and uncurling themselves nervously.
'You are not being frank with me, Mademoiselle. There is something.'
'There isn't-there really isn't.'
'There is something you have not told me.'
'I've told you every single smallest thing.'
She spoke sincerely and earnestly.
'About these accidents-about the attacks upon you, yes.'
'Well-then?'
'But you have not told me everything that is in your heart-in your life...'
She said slowly: 'Can anyone do that...?'
'Ah! then,' said Poirot, with triumph. 'You admit it!'
She shook her head. He watched her keenly.
'Perhaps,' he suggested, shrewdly. 'It is not your secret?'
I thought I saw a momentary flicker of her eyelids. But almost immediately she jumped up.
'Really and truly, M. Poirot, I've told you every single thing I know about this stupid business. If you think I know something about someone else, or have suspicions, you are wrong. It's having no suspicions that's driving me mad! Because I'm not a fool. I can see that if those “accidents” weren't accidents, they must have been engineered by somebody very near at hand-somebody who-knows me. And that's what is so awful. Because I haven't the least idea-not the very least-who that somebody might be.'
She went over once more to the window and stood looking out. Poirot signed to me not to speak. I think he was hoping for some further revelation, now that the girl's self-control had broken down.
When she spoke, it was in a different tone of
'There,' she said. 'I hope that will please you!' Poirot read it aloud. 'Arrive 5.30 today. Maggie.'
'My nurse and guardian!' said Nick. 'But you're wrong, you know. Maggie's got no kind of brains. Good works is about all she's fit for. That and never seeing the point of jokes. Freddie would be ten times better at spotting hidden assassins. And Jim Lazarus would be better still. I never feel one has got to the bottom of Jim.'
'And the Commander Challenger?'
'Oh! George! He'd never see anything till it was under his nose. But he'd let them have it when he did see. Very useful when it came to a show-down, George would be.'
She tossed off her hat and went on: 'I gave orders for the man you wrote about to be let in. It sounds mysterious. Is he installing a dictaphone or something like that?'
Poirot shook his head.
'No, no, nothing scientific. A very simple little matter of opinion, Mademoiselle. Something I wanted to know.'
'Oh, well,' said Nick. 'It's all great fun, isn't it?' 'Is it, Mademoiselle?' asked Poirot, gently.
She stood for a minute with her back to us, looking out of the window. Then she turned. All the brave defiance had gone out of her face. It was childishly twisted awry, as she struggled to keep back the tears.
'No,' she said. 'It-it isn't, really. I'm afraid-I'm afraid. Hideously afraid. And I always thought I was brave.'
'So you are, mon enfant, so you are. Both Hastings and I, we have both admired your courage.'
'Yes, indeed,' I put in warmly.
'No,' said Nick, shaking her head. 'I'm not brave. It's-it's the waiting. Wondering the whole time if anything more's going to happen. And how it'll happen! And expecting it to happen.'
'Yes, yes-it is the strain.'
'Last night I pulled my bed out into the middle of the room. And fastened my window and bolted my door. When I came here this morning, I came round by the road. I couldn't-I simply couldn't come through the garden. It's as though my nerve had gone all of a sudden. It's this thing coming on top of everything else.'
'What do you mean exactly by that, Mademoiselle? On top of everything else?' There was a momentary pause before she replied.
'I don't mean anything particular. What the newspapers call “the strain of modern life”, I suppose. Too many cocktails, too many cigarettes-all that sort of thing. It's just that I've got into a ridiculous-sort of-of state.'
She had sunk into a chair and was sitting there, her small fingers curling and uncurling themselves nervously.
'You are not being frank with me, Mademoiselle. There is something.'
'There isn't-there really isn't.'
'There is something you have not told me.'
'I've told you every single smallest thing.'
She spoke sincerely and earnestly.
'About these accidents-about the attacks upon you, yes.'
'Well-then?'
'But you have not told me everything that is in your heart-in your life...'
She said slowly: 'Can anyone do that...?'
'Ah! then,' said Poirot, with triumph. 'You admit it!'
She shook her head. He watched her keenly.
'Perhaps,' he suggested, shrewdly. 'It is not your secret?'
I thought I saw a momentary flicker of her eyelids. But almost immediately she jumped up.
'Really and truly, M. Poirot, I've told you every single thing I know about this stupid business. If you think I know something about someone else, or have suspicions, you are wrong. It's having no suspicions that's driving me mad! Because I'm not a fool. I can see that if those “accidents” weren't accidents, they must have been engineered by somebody very near at hand-somebody who-knows me. And that's what is so awful. Because I haven't the least idea-not the very least-who that somebody might be.'
She went over once more to the window and stood looking out. Poirot signed to me not to speak. I think he was hoping for some further revelation, now that the girl's self-control had broken down.
When she spoke, it was in a different tone of
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