"
"Oh, rash!" Her voice mocked at my prudence.
Then suddenly I said a thing I could have bitten out my tongue
for:
"You know that Dr. Bauerstein has been arrested?"
An instant coldness passed like a mask over her face, blotting
out all expression.
"John was so kind as to break that to me this morning."
"Well, what do you think?" I asked feebly.
"Of what?"
"Of the arrest?"
"What should I think? Apparently he is a German spy; so the
gardener had told John."
Her face and voice were absolutely cold and expressionless. Did
she care, or did she not?
She moved away a step or two, and fingered one of the flower
vases.
"These are quite dead. I must do them again. Would you mind
moving--thank you, Mr. Hastings." And she walked quietly past me
out of the window, with a cool little nod of dismissal.
No, surely she could not care for Bauerstein. No woman could act
her part with that icy unconcern.
Poirot did not make his appearance the following morning, and
there was no sign of the Scotland Yard men.
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