‘You arrived this morning at what time?’

‘I think it was just before half-past ten. Mrs Pierce, the old liar, wasn’t here, I found—’

‘Is that a frequent occurrence?’

Jane Plenderleith shrugged her shoulders.

‘About twice a week she turns up at twelve—or not at all. She’s supposed to come at nine. Actually, as I say, twice a week she either “comes over queer,” or else some member of her family is overtaken by sickness. All these daily women are like that—fail you now and again. She’s not bad as they go.’

‘You’ve had her long?’

‘Just over a month. Our last one pinched things.’

‘Please go on, Miss Plenderleith.’

‘I paid off the taxi, carried in my suitcase, looked round for Mrs P., couldn’t see her and went upstairs to my room. I tidied up a bit then I went across to Barbara—Mrs Allen—and found the door locked. I rattled the handle and knocked but could get no reply. I came downstairs and rang up the police station.’

‘Pardon!’ Poirot interposed a quick, deft question. ‘It did not occur to you to try and break down the door—with the help of one of the chauffeurs in the mews, say?’

Her eyes turned to him—cool, grey-green eyes. Her glance seemed to sweep over him quickly and appraisingly.

‘No, I don’t think I thought of that. If anything was wrong, it seemed to me that the police were the people to send for.’

‘Then you thought—pardon, mademoiselle—that there was something wrong?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Because you could not get a reply to your knocks? But possibly your friend might have taken a sleeping draught or something of that kind—’

‘She didn’t take sleeping draughts.’

The reply came sharply.

‘Or she might have gone away and locked her door before going?’

‘Why should she lock it? In any case she would have left a note for me.’

‘And she did not—leave a note for you? You are quite sure of that?’

‘Of course I am sure of it. I should have seen it at once.’

The sharpness of her tone was accentuated.

Japp said:

‘You didn’t try and look through the keyhole, Miss Plenderleith?’

‘No,’ said Jane Plenderleith thoughtfully. ‘I never thought of that. But I couldn’t have seen anything, could I? Because the key would have been in it?’

Her inquiring gaze, innocent, wide-eyed, met Japp’s. Poirot smiled suddenly to himself.

‘You did quite right, of course, Miss Plenderleith,’ said Japp. ‘I suppose you’d no reason to believe that your friend was likely to commit suicide?’

‘Oh, no.’

‘She hadn’t seemed worried—or distressed in any way?’

There was a pause—an appreciable pause before the girl answered.

‘No.’

‘Did you know she had a pistol?’

Jane Plenderleith nodded.

‘Yes, she had it out in India. She always kept it in a drawer in her room.’

‘H’m. Got a licence for it?’

‘I imagine so. I don’t know for certain.’

‘Now, Miss Plenderleith, will you tell me all you can about Mrs Allen, how long you’ve known her, where her relations are—everything in fact.’