“Afterwards,” said Poirot drily, “it was a little difficult for Mademoiselle Flora. She is told simply that the police are here and that there has been a robbery. Naturally she jumps to the conclusion that the theft of the money has been discovered. Her one idea is to stick to her story. When she learns that her uncle is dead she is panic-stricken. Young women do not faint nowadays, monsieur, without considerable provocation. Eh bien! there it is. She is bound to stick to her story, or else confess everything. And a young and pretty girl does not like to admit that she is a thief⁠—especially before those whose esteem she is anxious to retain.”

Raglan brought his fist down with a thump on the table. “I’ll not believe it,” he said. “It’s⁠—it’s not credible. And you⁠—you’ve known this all along?”

“The possibility has been in my mind from the first,” admitted Poirot. “I was always convinced that Mademoiselle Flora was hiding something from us. To satisfy myself, I made the little experiment I told you of. Dr. Sheppard accompanied me.”