That is so, is it not?"
This was news to me and glancing sideways at Poirot, I fancied
that it was news to him as well.
There was the faintest pause, the mere hesitation of a moment,
before she answered:
"Yes, that is so."
"And the boudoir window was open, was it not?"
Surely her face grew a little paler as she answered:
"Yes."
"Then you cannot have failed to hear the voices inside,
especially as they were raised in anger. In fact, they would be
more audible where you were than in the hall."
"Possibly."
"Will you repeat to us what you overheard of the quarrel?"
"I really do not remember hearing anything."
"Do you mean to say you did not hear voices?"
"Oh, yes, I heard the voices, but I did not hear what they said."
A faint spot of colour came into her cheek. "I am not in the
habit of listening to private conversations."
The Coroner persisted.
"And you remember nothing at all? _Nothing_, Mrs. Cavendish? Not
one stray word or phrase to make you realize that it _was_ a
private conversation?"
She paused, and seemed to reflect, still outwardly as calm as
ever.
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