The little man was transformed. He
radiated an absurd complacency. He bowed with exaggerated
respect to Mary Cavendish.
"Madame, I have your permission to hold a little reunion in the
salon? It is necessary for every one to attend."
Mary smiled sadly.
"You know, Monsieur Poirot, that you have carte blanche in every
way."
"You are too amiable, madame."
Still beaming, Poirot marshalled us all into the drawing-room,
bringing forward chairs as he did so.
"Miss Howard--here. Mademoiselle Cynthia. Monsieur Lawrence.
The good Dorcas. And Annie. Bien! We must delay our proceedings
a few minutes until Mr. Inglethorp arrives. I have sent him a
note."
Miss Howard rose immediately from her seat.
"If that man comes into the house, I leave it!"
"No, no!" Poirot went up to her and pleaded in a low voice.
Finally Miss Howard consented to return to her chair. A few
minutes later Alfred Inglethorp entered the room.
The company once assembled, Poirot rose from his seat with the
air of a popular lecturer, and bowed politely to his audience.
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