“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.”