“Very well,” said Mrs. Ackroyd at last, rather grudgingly, “I will tell the others, and we will be there at nine o’clock.”
Thereupon I took my leave, and joined Poirot at the agreed meeting place.
“I’ve been longer than a quarter of an hour, I’m afraid,” I remarked. “But once that good lady starts talking it’s a matter of the utmost difficulty to get a word in edgeways.”
“It is of no matter,” said Poirot. “I have been well amused. This park is magnificent.”
We set off homewards. When we arrived, to our great surprise Caroline, who had evidently been watching for us, herself opened the door.
She put her finger to her lips. Her face was full of importance and excitement.
“Ursula Bourne,” she said, “the parlour maid 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 anyone 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.