“She looks so different,” I replied rather feebly.

 

“Ah! _Sacré_!” cried Poirot. “Is it that you expect her to promenade herself in

the streets of London in a cowboy hat, or with bare feet, and a bunch of curls,

as an Irish colleen? Always with you it is the non-essentials! Remember the case

of the dancer, Valerie Saintclair.”

 

I shrugged my shoulders, slightly annoyed.

 

“But console yourself, _mon ami_,” said Poirot, calming down. “All cannot be as

Hercule Poirot! I know it well.”

 

“You really have the best opinion of yourself of anyone I ever knew!” I cried,

divided between amusement and annoyance.

 

“What will you? When one is unique, one knows it! And others share that

opinion—even, if I mistake not, Miss Mary Marvell.”

 

“What?”

 

“Without doubt. She is coming here.”

 

“How do you make that out?”

 

“Very simply. This street, it is not aristocratic, _mon ami_! In it there is no