“So you are a magician!”
“You can call me so if you like.”
The countess suddenly dropped her jesting manner. She spoke with passionate bitterness.
“Fool! My heart’s desire! Can you give me revenge upon my enemies? Can you give me back youth and beauty and a gay heart? Can you bring the dead to life again?”
Achille Poirot was watching her very curiously.
“Which of the three, Madame? Make your choice.”
She laughed sardonically.
“You will send me the Elixir of Life, perhaps? Come, I will make a bargain with you. Once, I had a child. Find my child for me—and you shall go free.”
“Madame, I agree. It is a bargain. Your child shall be restored to you. On the faith of—on the faith of Hercule Poirot himself.”
Again that strange woman laughed—this time long and unrestrainedly.
“My dear M. Poirot, I am afraid I laid a little trap for you. It is very kind of you to promise to find my child for me, but, you see, I happen to know that you would not succeed, and so that would be a very one-sided bargain, would it not?”
“Madame, I swear to you by the Holy Angels that I will restore your child to you.”