Leonie threw him a coquettish glance.

‘Thank you, monsieur. If I meet monsieur on the stairs, be well assured that I shall not scream.’

‘My child,’ said Poirot with dignity. ‘I am of advanced years. What have I to do with such frivolities?’

But with a little twitter of laughter, Leonie took herself off.

Poirot paced slowly up and down the room. His face became grave and anxious.

‘And now,’ he said at last, ‘for Lady Julia. What will she say, I wonder?’

Lady Julia came into the room with a quiet air of assurance. She bent her head graciously, accepted the chair that Poirot drew forward and spoke in a low, well-bred voice.

‘Lord Mayfield says that you wish to ask me some questions.’

‘Yes, madame. It is about last night.’

‘About last night, yes?’

‘What happened after you had finished your game of bridge?’

‘My husband thought it was too late to begin another. I went up to bed.’

‘And then?’

‘I went to sleep.’

‘That is all?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything of much interest. When did this’—she hesitated—‘burglary occur?’

‘Very soon after you went upstairs.’

‘I see. And what exactly was taken?’

‘Some private papers, madame.’

‘Important papers?’

‘Very important.’

She frowned a little and then said:

‘They were—valuable?’

‘Yes, madame, they were worth a good deal of money.’

‘I see.’

There was a pause, and then Poirot said:

‘What about your book, madame?’

‘My book?’ She raised bewildered eyes to him.

‘Yes, I understand Mrs Vanderlyn to say that some time after you three ladies had retired you went down again to fetch a book.’

‘Yes, of course, so I did.’

‘So that, as a matter of fact, you did not go straight to bed when you went upstairs? You returned to the drawing-room?’

‘Yes, that is true. I had forgotten.’

‘While you were in the drawing-room, did you hear someone scream?’

‘No—yes—I don’t think so.’

‘Surely, madame. You could not have failed to hear it in the drawing-room.’

Lady Julia flung her head back and said firmly:

‘I heard nothing.’

Poirot raised his eyebrows, but did not reply.

The silence grew uncomfortable. Lady Julia asked abruptly:

‘What is being done?’

‘Being done? I do not understand you, madame.’

‘I mean about the robbery. Surely the police must be doing something.’

Poirot shook his head.

‘The police have not been called in. I am in charge.’

She stared at him, her restless haggard face sharpened and tense. Her eyes, dark and searching, sought to pierce his impassivity.

They fell at last—defeated.

‘You cannot tell me what is being done?’

‘I can only assure you, madame, that I am leaving no stone unturned.’

‘To catch the thief—or to—recover the papers?’

‘The recovery of the papers is the main thing, madame.’

Her manner changed. It became bored, listless.

‘Yes,’ she said indifferently. ‘I suppose it is.’

There was another pause.