Third Girl by Agatha Christie Page A

do you mean by that?”
    â€œI went there,” said Poirot, “to see Sir Roderick Horsefield.”
    â€œWhat, that old boy? He’s practically gaga, isn’t he?”
    â€œHe is a man,” said Poirot, “who is in possession of a great many secrets. I do not mean that he takes an active part in such things nowadays, but he knows a good deal. He was connected with a great many things in the past war. He knew several people.”
    â€œThat’s all over years ago, though.”
    â€œYes, yes, his part in things is all over years ago. But do you not realise that there are certain things that it might be useful to know?”
    â€œWhat sort of things?”
    â€œFaces,” said Poirot. “A well-known face perhaps, which Sir Roderick might recognise. A face or a mannerism, a way of talking, a way of walking, a gesture. People do remember, you know.Old people. They remember, not things that have happened last week or last month or last year, but they remember something that happened, say, nearly twenty years ago. And they may remember someone who does not want to be remembered. And they can tell you certain things about a certain man or a certain woman or something they were mixed up in—I am speaking very vaguely, you understand. I went to him for information.”
    â€œYou went to him for information, did you? That old boy? Gaga. And he gave it to you?”
    â€œLet us say that I am quite satisfied.”
    David continued to stare at him. “I wonder now,” he said. “Did you go to see the old boy or did you go to see the little girl, eh? Did you want to know what she was doing in the house? I’ve wondered once or twice myself. Do you think she took that post there to get a bit of past information out of the old boy?”
    â€œI do not think,” said Poirot, “that it will serve any useful purpose to discuss these matters. She seems a very devoted and attentive—what shall I call her—secretary?”
    â€œA mixture of a hospital nurse, a secretary, a companion, an au pair girl, an uncle’s help? Yes, one could find a good many names for her, couldn’t one? He’s besotted about her. You noticed that?”
    â€œIt is not unnatural under the circumstances,” said Poirot primly.
    â€œI can tell you someone who doesn’t like her, and that’s our Mary.”
    â€œAnd she perhaps does not like Mary Restarick either.”
    â€œSo that’s what you think, is it?” said David. “That Sonia doesn’t like Mary Restarick. Perhaps you go as far as thinking thatshe may have made a few inquiries as to where the weed killer was kept? Bah,” he added, “the whole thing’s ridiculous. All right. Thanks for the lift. I think I’ll get out here.”
    â€œAha. This is where you want to be? We are still a good seven miles out of London.”
    â€œI’ll get out here. Good-bye, M. Poirot.”
    â€œGood-bye.”
    Poirot leant back in his seat as David slammed the door.
    II
    Mrs. Oliver prowled round her sitting room. She was very restless. An hour ago she had parcelled up a typescript that she had just finished correcting. She was about to send it off to her publisher who was anxiously awaiting it and constantly prodding her about it every three or four days.
    â€œThere you are,” said Mrs. Oliver, addressing the empty air and conjuring up an imaginary publisher. “There you are, and I hope you like it! I don’t. I think it’s lousy! I don’t believe you know whether anything I write is good or bad. Anyway, I warned you. I told you it was frightful. You said ‘Oh! no, no, I don’t believe that for a moment.’
    â€œYou just wait and see,” said Mrs. Oliver vengefully. “You just wait and see.”
    She opened the door, called to Edith, her maid, gave her the parcel and directed that it should be taken to the post at once.
    â€œAnd now,”