“You realise what you are asking?”
“I guess so,” said Van Aldin.
“Very well,” said Poirot. “I accept. But in that case, I must have frank answers to my questions.”
“Why, certainly. That is understood.”
Poirot’s manner changed. He became suddenly brusque and businesslike.
“This question of a divorce,” he said. “It was you who advised your daughter to bring the suit?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“About ten days ago. I had had a letter from her complaining of her husband’s behaviour, and I put it to her very strongly that divorce was the only remedy.”
“In what way did she complain of his behaviour?”
“He was being seen about with a very notorious lady—the one we have been speaking of—Mirelle.”
“The dancer. Ah-ha! And Madame Kettering objected? Was she very devoted to her husband?”
“I would not say that,” said Van Aldin, hesitating a little.
“It was not her heart that suffered, it was her pride—is that what you would say?”
“Yes, I suppose you might put it like that.”