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Rh “Pas tout a fait, madame. One thing more: did M. Halliday make any mention of his plans for the evening?”

“He said nothing whatever, monsieur.”

“I thank you, madame, and I apologise for disturbing you. Pray do not trouble—we can find our way out.”

We stepped out into the hall. A lady was just entering the front door as we did so. She ran quickly up the stairs, and I was left with an impression of the heavy mourning that denotes a French widow.

“A most unusual type of woman, that,” remarked Poirot, as we walked away.

“Madame Olivier? Yes, she”

“Mais non, not Madame Olivier. Cela va sans dire! There are not many geniuses of her stamp in the world. No, I referred to the other lady—the lady on the stairs.”

“I didn’t see her face,” I said, staring. “And I hardly see how you could have done. She never looked at us.”

“That is why I said she was an unusual type,” said Poirot placidly. “A woman who enters her home—for I presume that it is her home since she enters with a key—and runs straight upstairs without even looking at two strange visitors in the hall to see who they are, is a very