to answering a few questions. I put them to you with Mr. Cavendish’s full approval.”
“Oh, certainly, sir.”
“Then I will begin by asking you about the events of yesterday afternoon. Your mistress had a quarrel?”
“Yes, sir. But I don’t know that I ought–-” Dorcas hesitated. Poirot looked at her keenly.
“My good Dorcas, it is necessary that I should know every detail of that quarrel as fully as possible. Do not think that you are betraying your mistress’s secrets. Your mistress lies dead, and it
to stone. I instinctively followed the direction of his eyes, but I could see nothing unusual. The still feebly flickering ashes in the grate, and the row of prim ornaments on the mantelpiece, were surely harmless enough.
The violence of Mrs. Inglethorp’s attack seemed to be passing. She was able to speak in short gasps.