"Yes. I'm looking for a friend of mine whom I thought might have
walked this way."
"A little chap? As waves his hands when he talks? One of them
Belgies from the village?"
"Yes," I said eagerly. "He has been here, then?"
"Oh, ay, he's been here, right enough. More'n once too. Friend
of yours, is he? Ah, you gentlemen from the Hall--you'n a pretty
lot!" And he leered more jocosely than ever.
"Why, do the gentlemen from the Hall come here often?" I asked,
as carelessly as I could.
He winked at me knowingly.
"_One_ does, mister. Naming no names, mind. And a very liberal
gentleman too! Oh, thank you, sir, I'm sure."
I walked on sharply. Evelyn Howard had been right then, and I
experienced a sharp twinge of disgust, as I thought of Alfred
Inglethorp's liberality with another woman's money. Had that
piquant gipsy face been at the bottom of the crime, or was it the
baser mainspring of money? Probably a judicious mixture of both.
On one point, Poirot seemed to have a curious obsession.
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