words as she had done to Knighton and Poirot, though with far more soberness of manner.
“This is an extraordinary story, Mademoiselle,” said M. Carrège slowly. He leant back in his chair, adjusted his pince-nez, and looked keenly and searchingly at the dancer through them.
“You wish us to believe M. Kettering actually boasted of the crime to you beforehand?”
“Yes, yes. She was too healthy, he said. If she were to die it must be an accident—he would arrange it all.”
“You are aware, Mademoiselle,” said M. Carrège sternly, “that you are making yourself out to be an accessory before the fact?”
“Me? But not the least in the world, Monsieur. Not for a moment did I take that statement seriously. Ah no indeed! I know men, Monsieur; they say many wild things. It would be an odd state of affairs if one were to take all they said au pied de la lettre .”
The Examining Magistrate raised his eyebrows.
“We are to take it, then, that you regarded M. Kettering’s threats as mere idle words? May I ask, Mademoiselle, what made you throw up your engagements in London and come out to the Riviera?”
Mirelle looked at him with melting black eyes.
“I wished to be with the man I loved,” she said simply. “Was it so unnatural?”
Poirot interpolated a question gently.
“Was it, then, at M. Kettering’s wish that you accompanied him to Nice?”