“But yes, it is better so. Before, there was at all events a clear theory as to how and by whose hands he met his death. Now that is all gone. We are in darkness. A hundred conflicting points confuse and worry us. That is well. That is excellent. Out of confusion comes forth order. But if you find order to start with, if a crime seems simple and above-board, _eh bien, méfiez vous!___ It is, how do you say it?—_cooked!___ The great criminal is simple—but very few criminals _are___ great. In trying to cover up their tracks, they invariably betray themselves. Ah, _mon ami___, I would that some day I could meet a really great criminal—one who commits his crime, and then—does nothing! Even I, Hercule Poirot, might fail to catch such a one.” But I had not followed his words. A light had burst upon me. “Poirot! Mrs. Renauld! I see it now. She must be shielding somebody.” From the quietness with which Poirot received my remark, I could see that the idea had already occurred to him. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Shielding some one—or screening some one. One of the two.” I saw very little difference between the two words, but I developed my theme with a good deal of earnestness. Poirot maintained a strictly non-committal attitude, repeating: “It may be—yes, it may be. But as yet I do not know! There is something very deep underneath all this. You will see. Something very deep.” Then, as we entered our hotel, he enjoined silence on me with a gesture. 13 The Girl with the Anxious Eyes We lunched with an excellent appetite. I understood well enough that Poirot did not wish to discuss the tragedy where we could so easily be overheard. But, as is usual when one topic fills the mind to the exclusion of everything else, no other subject of interest seemed to present itself. For a while we ate in silence, and then Poirot observed maliciously: “_Eh bien!___ And your indiscretions! You recount them not?” I felt myself blushing. “Oh, you mean this morning?” I endeavoured to adopt a tone of absolute nonchalance. But I was no match for Poirot. In a very few minutes he had extracted the whole story from me, his eyes twinkling as he did so. “_Tiens!___ A story of the most romantic. What is her name, this charming young lady?” I had to confess that I did not know. “Still more romantic! The first _rencontre___ in the train from Paris, the second here. Journeys end in lovers’ meetings, is not that the saying?” “Don’t be an ass, Poirot.” “Yesterday it was Mademoiselle Daubreuil, today it is Mademoiselle—Cinderella! Decidedly you have the heart of a Turk, Hastings! You should establish a harem!” “It’s all very well to rag me. Mademoiselle Daubreuil is a very beautiful girl, and I do admire her immensely—I don’t mind admitting it. The other’s nothing—don’t suppose I shall ever see her again. She was quite amusing to talk to just for a railway journey, but she’s not the kind of girl I should ever get keen on.” “Why?”