He looked at them in a self-satisfied way, and they both appeared to be duly impressed, though Lenox was biting her underlip, and the corners of Katherine’s mouth had a suspicious twitch.
“And I shall do it,” he said gravely. “Oh yes, I shall succeed.”
He had gone but a few steps when Katherine’s voice made him turn.
“ M. Poirot, I—I want to tell you. I think you were quite right in what you said. I am going back to England almost immediately.”
Poirot stared at her very hard, and under the directness of his scrutiny she blushed.
“I see,” he said gravely.
“I don’t believe you do,” said Katherine.
“I know more than you think, Mademoiselle,” he said quietly.
He left her, with an odd little smile upon his lips. Entering a waiting car, he drove to Antibes.
Hipolyte, the Comte de la Roche’s wooden-faced manservant, was busy at the Villa Marina polishing his master’s beautiful cut table glass. The Comte de la Roche himself had gone to Monte Carlo for the day. Chancing to look out of the window, Hipolyte espied a visitor walking briskly up to the hall door, a visitor of so uncommon a type that Hipolyte, experienced as he was, had some difficulty in placing him. Calling to his wife, Marie, who was busy in the kitchen, he drew her attention to what he called ce type là .
“It is not the police again?” said Marie anxiously.
“Look for yourself,” said Hipolyte.
Marie looked.