grand society, I would have offered you double the salary poor Jane gave you to come and look after me; but there—there’s no good wanting what we can’t get. However, if things should go ill with you—and that is always possible. I have heard no end of tales of bogus noblemen marrying girls and getting hold of their money and then leaving them at the church door. I dare say you are too sensible for anything of the kind to happen to you, but one never knows; and never having had much attention of any kind it might easily go to your head now. So just in case, my dear, remember there is always a home for you here; and though a plainspoken woman I am a warmhearted one too. —Your affectionate old
Katherine read this characteristic epistle through twice, then she laid it down and stared out of her bedroom window across the blue waters of the Mediterranean. She felt a curious lump in her throat. A sudden wave of longing for St. Mary Mead swept over her. So full of familiar, everyday, stupid little things—and yet—home. She felt very inclined to lay her head down on her arms and indulge in a real good cry.
Lenox, coming in at the moment, saved her.
“Hello, Katherine,” said Lenox. “I say—what is the matter?”
“Nothing,” said Katherine, grabbing up Miss Viner’s letter and thrusting it into her handbag.
“You looked rather queer,” said Lenox. “I say—I hope you don’t mind—I rang up your detective friend, M. Poirot, and asked him to lunch with us in Nice. I said you wanted to see him, as I thought he might not come for me.”
“Did you want to see him then?” asked Katherine.