“Their names are unknown, but they are presumed to be Chilians from Santiago. And now, mademoiselle, you see what comes of being young and beautiful! I have betrayed professional secrets for you!” The girl laughed merrily, and then, rather shyly, she thanked him. “I must run back now. _Maman___ will miss me.” And she turned and ran back up the road, looking like a modern Atalanta. I stared after her. “_Mon ami___,” said Poirot, in his gentle ironical voice, “is it that we are to remain planted here all night—just because you have seen a beautiful young woman, and your head is in a whirl?” I laughed and apologized. “But she _is___ beautiful, Poirot. Any one might be excused for being bowled over by her.” Poirot groaned. “_Mon Dieu!___ But it is that you have the susceptible heart!” “Poirot,” I said, “do you remember after the Styles Case when—” “When you were in love with two charming women at once, and neither of them were for you? Yes, I remember.” “You consoled me by saying that perhaps some day we should hunt together again, and that then—” “_Eh bien?___” “Well, we are hunting together again, and—” I paused, and laughed rather self-consciously. But to my surprise Poirot shook his head very earnestly. “Ah, _mon ami___, do not set your heart on Marthe Daubreuil. She is not for you, that one! Take it from Papa Poirot!” “Why,” I cried, “the commissary assured me that she was as good as she is beautiful! A perfect angel!” “Some of the greatest criminals I have known had the faces of angels,” remarked Poirot cheerfully. “A malformation of the grey cells may coincide quite easily with the face of a madonna.” “Poirot,” I cried, horrified, “you cannot mean that you suspect an innocent child like this!” “Ta-ta-ta! Do not excite yourself! I have not said that I suspected her. But you must admit that her anxiety to know about the case is somewhat unusual.” “For once, I see further than you do,” I said. “Her anxiety is not for herself—but for her mother.” “My friend,” said Poirot, “as usual, you see nothing at all. Madame Daubreuil is very well able to look after herself without her daughter worrying about her. I admit I was teasing you just now, but all the same I repeat what I said before. Do not set your heart on that girl. She is not for you! I, Hercule Poirot, know it. _Sacré!___ if only I could remember where I had seen that face!” “What face?” I asked, surprised. “The daughter’s?” “No. The mother’s.” Noting my surprise, he nodded emphatically. “But yes—it is as I tell you. It was a long time ago, when I was still with the Police in Belgium. I have never actually seen the woman before, but I have seen her picture—and in connection with some case. I rather fancy—” “Yes?” “I may be mistaken, but I rather fancy that it was a murder case!” 8 An Unexpected Meeting