“After I made her shut the door, Jennie darted over to the window and stared out. She was acting as if someone out there was after her. She stared and stared out of the window, but all she would have seen was herself, this room, and me—my reflection, I mean. And I saw her. That’s how I knew who she was. You ask Mr. Poirot, he’ll tell you. I said, ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ before she’d turned round. The window was like a mirror, see, with it being all lit up in here and dark outside. Now, you might say that maybe she was trying to see outside even if she wasn’t having much luck, but that’s not true.”

“What do you mean?”

“She wasn’t looking out for anyone following her. She was watching me, like I was watching her. My eyes could see hers reflected, and hers could see mine—like with a mirror, if you know how that is?”

I nodded. “Whenever you can see someone in a mirror, they can always see you too.”

“Right enough. And Jennie was watching me, I swear: waiting to see what I’d say or do about her coming in all of a pet. This’ll sound funny, Mr. Catchpool, but it was like I could see more than her eyes. I could see her mind, if that don’t sound too fanciful. I’d swear she was waiting for me to take charge.”

“Anyone sensible would wait for you to take charge.” I smiled.

“Tschk.” Fee made a noise that suggested irritation. “I don’t know how I forgot it, if you must know. I want to grab hold of me and give me a good shaking for not remembering before now. I swear I didn’t imagine it. Her reflection was staring mine right in the eyes, as if . . .” Fee frowned. “As if I was the danger and not nobody outside on the street. But why would she look at me that way? Can you make sense of it? I can’t.”

AFTER LOOKING IN ON things at Scotland Yard, I returned to the lodging house to find Poirot endeavoring to leave it. He was standing by the open front door in his hat and coat, with high color in his face and an unsettled air about him, as if he was having trouble keeping still. This was a problem that did not normally afflict him. Unusually for her, Blanche Unsworth showed no interest in my arrival, and was instead fussing about a car that was late. She too was pink-faced.

“We must leave at once for the Bloxham Hotel, Catchpool,” said Poirot, adjusting his mustache with gloved fingers. “As soon as the car arrives.”

“It should have been here ten minutes ago,” said Blanche. “I suppose the boon of it being late is you can take Mr. Catchpool with you.”

“What is the emergency?” I asked.