She moved away a step or two, and fingered one of the flower vases.

“These are quite dead. I must do them again. Would you mind moving⁠—thank you, Mr. Hastings.” And she walked quietly past me out of the window, with a cool little nod of dismissal.

No, surely she could not care for Bauerstein. No woman could act her part with that icy unconcern.

Poirot did not make his appearance the following morning, and there was no sign of the Scotland Yard men.