to her. She liked him, and there was much sympathy and understanding between them. But love—no! It is not Captain Paton Mademoiselle Flora loves."
"What the devil do you mean?" asked Blunt.
I saw the dark flush under his tan.
"You have been blind, monsieur. Blind! She is loyal, the little one. Ralph Paton is under a cloud, she is bound in honor to stick by him."
I felt it was time I put in a word to help on the good work.
"My sister told me the other night," I said encouragingly, "that Flora had never cared a penny piece for Ralph Paton, and never would. My sister is always right about these things."
Blunt ignored my well-meant efforts. He spoke to Poirot.
"D'you really think———" he began, and stopped.
He is one of those inarticulate men who find it hard to put things into words.
Poirot knows no such disability.
"If you doubt me, ask her yourself, monsieur. But perhaps you no longer care to—the affair of the money———"
Blunt gave a sound like an angry laugh.
"Think I'd hold that against her? Roger was always a queer chap about money. She got in a mess and didn't dare tell him. Poor kid. Poor lonely kid."
Poirot looked thoughtfully at the side door.
"Mademoiselle Flora went into the garden, I think," he murmured.
[236]
