not know how much Poirot would wish me to disclose. As I saw a faint smile gather on Mrs. Cavendish’s expressive mouth, I endeavoured to try and turn the conversation by saying: “They haven’t met yet, have they?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Inglethorp and Miss Howard.”
She looked at me in rather a disconcerting manner.
“Do you think it would be such a disaster if they did meet?”
“Well, don’t you?” I said, rather taken aback.
“No.” She was smiling in her quiet way. “I should like to see a good flare up. It
that we should know all—if we are to avenge her. Nothing can bring her back to life, but we do hope, if there has been foul play, to bring the murderer to justice.”
“Amen to that,” said Dorcas fiercely. “And, naming no names, there’s one in this house that none of us could ever abide! And an ill day it was when first he darkened the threshold.”