“Monsieur—a moment, I beg of you, if you will be so good.”

 

“Well, sir?”

 

Blunt was obviously impatient. He stood frowning down on Poirot.

 

“It is this,” said Poirot rapidly: “I am not deceived by your little fantasy.

No, indeed. It was truly Miss Flora who took the money. All the same it is well

imagined what you say—it pleases me. It is very good what you have done there.

You are a man quick to think and to act.”

 

“I’m not in the least anxious for your opinion, thank you,” said Blunt coldly.

 

He made once more as though to pass on, but Poirot, not at all offended, laid a

detaining hand on his arm.

 

“Ah! but you are to listen to me. I have more to say. The other day I spoke of

concealments. Very well, all along have I seen what you are concealing.

Mademoiselle Flora, you love her with all your heart. From the first moment you

saw her, is it not so? Oh! let us not mind saying these things—why must one in

England think it necessary to mention love as though it were some disgraceful

secret? You love Mademoiselle Flora. You seek to conceal that fact from all the

world. That is very good—that is as it should be. But take the advice of Hercule

Poirot—do not conceal it from mademoiselle herself.”