And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and
ill, I thought. The heaviness and languor of her manner were
very marked. I asked her if she were feeling ill, and she
answered frankly:
"Yes, I've got the most beastly headache."
"Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?" said Poirot
solicitously. "It will revive you. It is unparalleled for the
mal de tete." He jumped up and took her cup.
"No sugar," said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the
sugar-tongs.
"No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, eh?"
"No, I never take it in coffee."
"Sacre!" murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back the
replenished cup.
Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I
saw that his face was working with suppressed excitement, and his
eyes were as green as a cat's. He had heard or seen something
that had affected him strongly--but what was it? I do not usually
label myself as dense, but I must confess that nothing out of the
ordinary had attracted _my_ attention.
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