POIROT PAYS A CALL
Caroline is really amazing.
"Why not?" asked my sister triumphantly. "I can see the path up to the surgery door perfectly from this window. And I've got an excellent memory, James. Much better than yours, let me tell you."
"I'm sure you have," I murmured mechanically.
My sister went on, checking the names on her fingers.
"There was old Mrs. Bennett, and that boy from the farm with the bad finger, Dolly Grice to have a needle out of her finger; that American steward off the liner. Let me see—that's four. Yes, and old George Evans with his ulcer. And lastly———"
She paused significantly.
"Well?"
Caroline brought out her climax triumphantly. She hissed in the most approved style—aided by the fortunate number of s's at her disposal.
"Miss Russell!"
She sat back in her chair and looked at me meaningly, and when Caroline looks at you meaningly, it is impossible to miss it.
"I don't know what you mean," I said, quite untruthfully. "Why shouldn't Miss Russell consult me about her bad knee?"
"Bad knee," said Caroline. "Fiddlesticks! No more bad knee than you and I. She was after something else."
"What?" I asked.
Caroline had to admit that she didn't know.
"But depend upon it, that was what he was trying to
[143]
