Finally, having done all we could, we left him in the charge of Marthe and her mother, and set out for the town. It was past our usual hour of dining, and we were both famished. The first restaurant we came to assuaged the pangs of hunger with an excellent _omelette___, and an equally excellent _entrecôte___ to follow. “And now for quarters for the night,” said Poirot, when at length _café noir___ had completed the meal. “Shall we try our old friend, the Hôtel des Bains?” We traced our steps there without more ado. Yes, Messieurs could be accommodated with two good rooms overlooking the sea. Then Poirot asked a question which surprised me. “Has an English lady, Miss Robinson, arrived?” “Yes, monsieur. She is in the little _salon___.” “Ah!” “Poirot,” I cried, keeping pace with him as he walked along the corridor, “who on earth is Miss Robinson?” Poirot beamed kindly on me. “It is that I have arranged you a marriage, Hastings.” “But, I say—” “Bah!” said Poirot, giving me a friendly push over the threshold of the door. “Do you think I wish to trumpet aloud in Merlinville the name of Duveen?” It was indeed Cinderella who rose to greet us. I took her hands in both of mine. My eyes said the rest. Poirot cleared his throat. “_Mes enfants___,” he said, “for the moment we have no time for sentiment. There is work ahead of us. Mademoiselle, were you able to do what I asked you?” In response, Cinderella took from her bag an object wrapped up in paper, and handed it silently to Poirot. The latter unwrapped it. I gave a start—for it was the aeroplane dagger which I understood she had cast into the sea. Strange, how reluctant women always are to destroy the most compromising of objects and documents! “_Très bien, mon enfant___,” said Poirot. “I am pleased with you. Go now and rest yourself. Hastings here and I have work to do. You shall see him tomorrow.” “Where are you going?” asked the girl, her eyes widening. “You shall hear all about it tomorrow.” “Because wherever you’re going, I’m coming too.” “But mademoiselle—” “I’m coming too, I tell you.” Poirot realized that it was futile to argue further. He gave in. “Come then, mademoiselle. But it will not be amusing. In all probability nothing will happen.” The girl made no reply. Twenty minutes later we set forth. It was quite dark now, a close, oppressive evening. Poirot led the way out of the town in the direction of the Villa Geneviève. But when he reached the Villa Marguerite he paused. “I should like to assure myself that all goes well with Jack Renauld. Come with me, Hastings. Mademoiselle will perhaps remain outside. Madame Daubreuil might say something which would wound her.” We unlatched the gate, and walked up the path. As we went round to the side of the house, I drew Poirot’s attention to a window on the first floor. Thrown sharply on the blind was the profile of Marthe Daubreuil.