She put her fingers to her lips. Her face was full of importance and excitement.
"Ursula Bourne," she said, "the parlormaid from Fernly. She's here! I've put her in the dining-room. She's in a terrible way, poor thing. Says she must see M. Poirot at once. I've done all I could. Taken her a cup of hot tea. It really goes to one's heart to see any one in such a state."
"In the dining-room?" asked Poirot.
"This way," I said, and flung open the door.
Ursula Bourne was sitting by the table. Her arms were spread out in front of her, and she had evidently just lifted her head from where it had been buried. Her eyes were red with weeping.
"Ursula Bourne," I murmured.
But Poirot went past me with outstretched hands.
"No," he said, "that is not quite right, I think. It is not Ursula Bourne, is it, my child—but Ursula Paton? Mrs. Ralph Paton."
[259]
