“Such as?” asked Poirot.
“Well”—the Magistrate coughed—“this lady with whom he is said to be travelling—Mademoiselle Mirelle. She is staying at one hotel and he at another. That strikes me—er—as rather odd.”
“It looks,” said M. Caux, “as though they were being careful.”
“Exactly,” said M. Carrège triumphantly; “and what should they have to be careful about?”
“An excess of caution is suspicious, eh?” said Poirot.
“ Précisément. ”
“We might, I think,” murmured Poirot, “ask M. Kettering one or two questions.”
The Magistrate gave instructions. A moment or two later, Derek Kettering, debonair as ever, entered the room.
“Good morning, Monsieur,” said the Judge politely.
“Good morning,” said Derek Kettering curtly. “You sent for me. Has anything fresh turned up?”
“Pray sit down, Monsieur.”
Derek took a seat and flung his hat and stick on the table.
“Well?” he asked impatiently.
“We have, so far, no fresh data,” said M. Carrège cautiously.
“That’s very interesting,” said Derek drily. “Did you send for me here in order to tell me that?”