“How do you know?”
“Mademoiselle, it is the business of Hercule Poirot to know things. I know that you went out earlier in the evening, that you left a message in the summerhouse to say what time you would be there.”
“Yes, I did. I had heard from him—saying he was coming. I dared not let him come to the house. I wrote to the address he gave me and said I would meet him in the summerhouse, and described it to him so that he would be able to find it. Then I was afraid he might not wait there patiently, and I ran out and left a piece of paper to say I would be there about ten minutes past nine. I didn’t want the servants to see me, so I slipped out through the drawing room window. As I came back, I met Dr. Sheppard, and I fancied that he would think it queer. I was out of breath, for I had been running. I had no idea that he was expected to dinner that night.”
She paused.
“Go on,” said Poirot. “You went out to meet him at ten minutes past nine. What did you say to each other?”
“It’s difficult. You see—”
“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, interrupting her, “in this matter I must have the whole truth. What you tell us need never go beyond these four walls. Dr. Sheppard will be discreet, and so shall I. See, I will help you. This Charles Kent, he is your son, is he not?”
She nodded. The colour had flamed into her cheeks.
“No one has ever known. It was long ago—long ago—down in Kent. I was not married. …”
“So you took the name of the county as a surname for him. I understand.”