very tired and ill, I thought. The heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. I asked her if she were feeling ill, and she answered frankly:
“Yes, I’ve got the most beastly headache.”
“Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?” said Poirot solicitously. “It will revive you. It is unparalleled for the mal de tete.” He jumped up and took her cup.
“No sugar,” said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the sugar-tongs.
“No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, eh?”
“No, I never take it in coffee.”
death was a shock and a distress, but she would not be passionately regretted.
Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded his head gravely.
“No, you are right,” he said, “it is not as though there was a blood tie. She has been kind and generous to these Cavendishes, but she was not their own mother.