says as how she’ll wait, seeing as she’s come up from the country.”

 

“Oh, show her in here, Mrs. Murchison. Perhaps I can do something for her.”

 

In another moment the lady had been ushered in. My heart gave a leap as I

recognized her. Lady Yardly’s portrait had figured too often in the Society

papers to allow her to remain unknown.

 

“Do sit down, Lady Yardly,” I said, drawing forward a chair. “My friend Poirot

is out, but I know for a fact that he’ll be back very shortly.”

 

She thanked me and sat down. A very different type, this, from Miss Mary

Marvell. Tall, dark, with flashing eyes, and a pale proud face—yet something

wistful in the curves of the mouth.

 

I felt a desire to rise to the occasion. Why not? In Poirot’s presence I have

frequently felt a difficulty—I do not appear at my best. And yet there is no

doubt that I, too, possess the deductive sense in a marked degree. I leant

forward on a sudden impulse.

 

“Lady Yardly,” I said, “I know why you have come here. You have received

blackmailing letters about the diamond.”

 

There was no doubt as to my bolt having shot home. She stared at me

open-mouthed, all colour banished from her cheeks.