Poirot looked with some interest at the girl as she entered: at the chestnut hair, the poise of the head on the long neck, the nervous energy of the beautifully shaped hands.

He said: "Sit down Mademoiselle."

She sat down obediently. Her face was colorless and expressionless.

Poirot began with a mechanical expression of sympathy to which the girl acquiesced without any change of expression.

"And now, Mademoiselle, will you recount to me how you spent the afternoon of the day in question?"

Her answer came promptly, raising the suspicion that it had already been well rehearsed.

"After luncheon we all went for a stroll. I returned to the camp—"

Poirot interrupted. "A little minute. Were you all together until then?"

"No, I was with my brother Raymond and Miss King or most of the time. Then I strolled off on my own."

"Thank you. And you were saying you returned to the camp. Do you know the approximate time?"

"I believe it was just about ten minutes past five."

Poirot put down "C. B. 5:10."

"And what then?"

"My mother was still sitting where she had been when we set out. I went up and spoke to her and then went on to my tent."

"Can you remember exactly what passed between you?"

"I just said it was very hot and that I was going to lie down. My mother said she would remain where she was. That was all."

"Did anything in her appearance strike you as out of the ordinary?"

"No. At least—that is—" She paused doubtfully, staring at Poirot.

"It is not from me that you can get the answer, Mademoiselle," said Poirot quietly.

She flushed and looked away. "I was just considering. I hardly noticed at the time, but now, looking back—"

"Yes?"

Carol said slowly: "It is true—she was a funny color—her face was very red—more so than usual."

"She might, perhaps, have had a shock of some kind." Poirot suggested.

"A shock?" She stared at him.

"Yes, she might have had, let us say, some trouble with one of the Arab servants."

"Oh!" Her face cleared. "Yes—she might."

"She did not mention such a thing having happened?"

"No, no, nothing at all."

Poirot went on: "And what did you do next Mademoiselle?"

"I went to my tent and lay down for about half an hour. Then I went down to the marquee. My brother and his wife were there reading."

"And what did you do?"

"Oh! I had some sewing to do. And then I picked up a magazine."

"Did you speak to your mother again on your way to the marquee?"

"No, I went straight down. I don't think I even glanced in her direction."

"And then?"

"I remained in the marquee until—until Miss King told us she was dead."

"And that is all you know, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes."

Poirot leaned forward. His tone was the same, light and conversational. "And what did you feel, Mademoiselle?"

"What did I feel?"

"Yes, when you found that your mother—pardon—your stepmother was she not?—what did you feel when you learned she was dead?"