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 at him in an excess of archness. “Well, there it was, me and Claudie, two young things—what else could you expect? And I’ve still a kindly feeling for him. Though, mind you, he didn’t treat me well—no, he didn’t—he didn’t treat me well at all. Not as a lady should be treated. They’re all the same when it comes to a question of money.”

“No, no, mademoiselle, do not say that,” protested Poirot, filling up her glass once more. “Could you now describe this Mr. Darrell to me?”

“He wasn’t anything so very much to look at,” said Flossie Monro dreamily. “Neither tall nor short, you know, but quite well set up. Spruce looking. Eyes a sort of blue-gray. And more or less fair-haired, I suppose. But oh, what an artist! I never saw any one to touch him in the profession! He’d have made his name before now if it hadn’t been for jealousy. Ah, Mr. Poirot, jealousy—you wouldn’t believe it, you really wouldn’t, what we artists have to suffer through jealousy. Why, I remember once at Manchester”

We displayed what patience we could in listening to a long complicated story about a pantomine, and the infamous conduct of the principal boy. Then Poirot led her gently back to the subject of Claud Darrell.