With a certain petulance, he pulled the bell and asked that Mademoiselle Leonie might be sent to him.

His eyes roamed over her appreciatively as she stood hestiating in the doorway, demure in her black dress with her neatly-parted black waves of hair and her modestly-dropped eyelids. He nodded slow approval.

‘Come in, Mademoiselle Leonie,’ he said. ‘Do not be afraid.’

She came in and stood demurely before him.

‘Do you know,’ said Poirot with a sudden change of tone, ‘that I find you very good to look at.’

Leonie responded promptly. She flashed him a glance out of the corner of her eyes and murmured softly:

‘Monsieur is very kind.’

‘Figure to yourself,’ said Poirot. ‘I demand of M. Carlile whether you are or not good-looking and he replies that he does not know!’

Leonie cocked her chin up contemptuously.

‘That image!’

‘That describes him very well.’

‘I do not believe he has ever looked at a girl in his life, that one.’

‘Probably not. A pity. He has missed a lot. But there are others in this house who are more appreciative, is it not so?’

‘Really, I do not know what monsieur means.’

‘Oh, yes, Mademoiselle Leonie, you know very well. A pretty history that you recount last night about a ghost that you have seen. As soon as I hear that you are standing there with your hands to your head, I know very well that there is no question of ghosts. If a girl is frightened she clasps her heart, or she raises her hands to her mouth to stifle a cry, but if her hands are on her hair it means something very different. It means that her hair has been ruffled and that she is hastily getting it into shape again! Now then, mademoiselle, let us have the truth. Why did you scream on the stairs?’

‘But monsieur it is true, I saw a tall figure all in white—’

‘Mademoiselle, do not insult my intelligence. That story, it may have been good enough for M. Carlile, but it is not good enough for Hercule Poirot. The truth is that you had just been kissed, is it not so? And I will make a guess that it was M. Reggie Carrington who kissed you.’

Leonie twinkled an unabashed eye at him.

‘Eh bien,’ she demanded, ‘after all, what is a kiss?’

‘What, indeed?’ said Poirot gallantly.

‘You see, the young gentleman he came up behind me and caught me round the waist—and so naturally he startled me and I screamed. If I had known—well, then naturally I would not have screamed.’

‘Naturally,’ agreed Poirot.

‘But he came upon me like a cat. Then the study door opened and out came M. le secrétaire and the young gentleman slipped away upstairs and there I was looking like a fool. Naturally I had to say something—especially to——’ she broke into French, ‘un jeune homme comme c¸a, tellement comme il faut!’

‘So you invent a ghost?’

‘Indeed, monsieur, it was all I could think of. A tall figure all in white, that floated. It is ridiculous but what else could I do?’