“To me?” said Flora.

 

“Mademoiselle, you are engaged to Captain Ralph Paton. If any one is in his

confidence, you are. I beg you, most earnestly, if you know of his whereabouts,

to persuade him to come forward. One little minute”—as Flora raised her head to

speak—“say nothing till you have well reflected. Mademoiselle, his position

grows daily more dangerous.

 

If he had come forward at once, no matter how damning the facts, he might have

had a chance of explaining them away. But this silence—this flight—what can it

mean? Surely only one thing, knowledge of guilt.

 

Mademoiselle, if you really believe in his innocence, persuade him to come

forward before it is too late.”

 

Flora’s face had gone very white.

 

“Too late!” she repeated, very low.

 

Poirot leant forward, looking at her.

 

“See now, mademoiselle,” he said very gently, “it is Papa Poirot who asks you

this. The old Papa Poirot who has much knowledge and much experience. I would

not seek to entrap you, mademoiselle. Will you not trust me—and tell me where