“Kenneth did see me? Did—did he say so?”

Poirot nodded.

“He saw you, Mademoiselle, in the mirror that hangs over the table.”

Rosamund caught her breath. She said:

“Oh! I see.”

Poirot was no longer looking out to sea. He was looking at Rosamund Darnley’s hands as they lay folded in her lap. They were well-shaped hands, beautifully moulded with very long fingers.

Rosamund, shooting a quick look at him, followed the direction of his eyes. She said sharply:

“What are you looking at my hands for? Do you think—do you think—?”

Poirot said:

“Do I think—what, Mademoiselle?”

Rosamund Darnley said:

“Nothing.”

VIII

It was perhaps an hour later that Hercule Poirot came to the top of the path leading to Gull Cove. There was someone sitting on the beach. A slight figure in a red shirt and dark blue shorts.

Poirot descended the path, stepping carefully in his tight smart shoes.

Linda Marshall turned her head sharply. He thought that she shrank a little.

Her eyes, as he came and lowered himself gingerly to the shingle beside her, rested on him with the suspicion and alertness of a trapped animal. He realized, with a pang, how young and vulnerable she was.

She said:

“What is it? What do you want?”

Hercule Poirot did not answer for a minute or two. Then he said:

“The other day you told the Chief Constable that you were fond of your stepmother and that she was kind to you.”

“Well?”

“That was not true, was it, Mademoiselle?”

“Yes, it was.”

Poirot said:

“She may not have been actively unkind—that I will grant. But you were not fond of her—Oh no—I think you disliked her very much. That was very plain to see.”

Linda said:

“Perhaps I didn’t like her very much. But one can’t say that when a person is dead. It wouldn’t be decent.”

Poirot sighed. He said:

“They taught you that at your school?”

“More or less, I suppose.”

Hercule Poirot said:

“When a person has been murdered, it is more important to be truthful than to be decent.”

Linda said:

“I suppose you would say a thing like that.”

“I would say it and I do say it. It is my business, you see, to find out who killed Arlena Marshall.”

Linda muttered:

“I want to forget it all. It’s so horrible.”

Poirot said gently:

“But you can’t forget, can you?”

Linda said:

“I suppose some beastly madman killed her.”

Hercule Poirot murmured:

“No, I do not think it was quite like that.”

Linda caught her breath. She said:

“You sound—as though you knew?”

Poirot said:

“Perhaps I do know.” He paused and went on: “Will you trust me, my child, to do the best I can for you in your bitter trouble?”

Linda sprang up. She said: