‘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.

‘Is there anything else, M. Poirot?’

‘No, madame. I will not detain you further.’

‘Thank you.’

He opened the door for her. She passed out without glancing at him.

Poirot went back to the fireplace and carefully rearranged the ornaments on the mantelpiece. He was still at it when Lord Mayfield came in through the window.

‘Well?’ said the latter.

‘Very well, I think. Events are shaping themselves as they should.’

Lord Mayfield said, staring at him:

‘You are pleased.’

‘No, I am not pleased. But I am content.’

‘Really, M. Poirot, I cannot make you out.’

‘I am not such a charlatan as you think.’

‘I never said—’

‘No, but you thought! No matter. I am not offended. It is sometimes necessary for me to adopt a certain pose.’

Lord Mayfield looked at him doubtfully with a certain amount of distrust. Hercule Poirot was a man he did not understand. He wanted to despise him, but something warned him that this ridiculous little man was not so futile as he appeared. Charles McLaughlin had always been able to recognize capability when he saw it.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘we are in your hands. What do you advise next?’

‘Can you get rid of your guests?’

‘I think it might be arranged…I could explain that I have to go to London over this affair. They will then probably offer to leave.’

‘Very good. Try and arrange it like that.’

Lord Mayfield hesitated.