Blunt had shown several signs of restlessness whilst Poirot was speaking, but

the closing words seemed to rivet his attention.

 

“What d’you mean by that?” he said sharply.

 

“You think that she loves the Capitaine Ralph Paton—but I, Hercule Poirot, tell

you that that is not so. Mademoiselle Flora accepted Captain Paton to please her

uncle, and because she saw in the marriage a way of escape from her life here

which was becoming frankly insupportable to her. She liked him, and there was

much sympathy and understanding between them. But love—no! It is not Captain

Paton Mademoiselle Flora loves.”

 

“What the devil do you mean?” asked Blunt.

 

I saw the dark flush under his tan.

 

“You have been blind, monsieur. Blind! She is loyal, the little one.

 

Ralph Paton is under a cloud, she is bound in honor to stick by him.”

 

I felt it was time I put in a word to help on the good work.

 

“My sister told me the other night,” I said encouragingly, “that Flora had never

cared a penny piece for Ralph Paton, and never would. My sister is always right

about these things.”