“You have known all the time? Who told you? Was it—was it Antonio?”
Poirot shook his head.
“No one told me,” he said quietly. “I guessed. It was a good guess, was it not, Mademoiselle? You see, unless you are good at guessing, it is not much use being a detective.”
The girl walked along beside him for some minutes in silence. Then she said in a hard voice:
“Well, what are you going to do about it? Are you going to tell my father?”
“No,” said Poirot sharply. “Certainly not.”
She looked at him curiously.
“You want something from me?”
“I want your help, Mademoiselle.”
“What makes you think that I can help you?”
“I do not think so. I only hope so.”
“And if I do not help you, then—you will tell my father?”
“But no, but no! Debarrass yourself of that idea, Mademoiselle. I am not a blackmailer. I do not hold your secret over your head and threaten you with it.”
“If I refuse to help you—” began the girl slowly.
“Then you refuse, and that is that.”
“Then why—” she stopped.