“Well—it sounds snobbish perhaps—but she’s not a lady, not in any sense of the word.” Poirot nodded thoughtfully. There was less raillery in his voice as he asked: “You believe, then, in birth and breeding?” “I may be old-fashioned, but I certainly don’t believe in marrying out of one’s class. It never answers.” “I agree with you, _mon ami___. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it is as you say. But there is always the hundredth time! Still, that does not arise, as you do not propose to see the lady again.” His last words were almost a question, and I was aware of the sharpness with which he darted a glance at me. And before my eyes, writ large in letters of fire, I saw the words “Hôtel du Phare,” and I heard again her voice saying “Come and look me up” and my own answering with _empressement___: “I will.” Well, what of it? I had meant to go at the time. But since then, I had had time to reflect. I did not like the girl. Thinking it over in cold blood, I came definitely to the conclusion that I disliked her intensely. I had got hauled over the coals for foolishly gratifying her morbid curiosity, and I had not the least wish to see her again. I answered Poirot lightly enough. “She asked me to look her up, but of course I shan’t.” “Why ‘of course’?” “Well—I don’t want to.” “I see.” He studied me attentively for some minutes. “Yes. I see very well. And you are wise. Stick to what you have said.” “That seems to be your invariable advice,” I remarked, rather piqued. “Ah, my friend, have faith in Papa Poirot. Some day, if you permit, I will arrange you a marriage of great suitability.” “Thank you,” I said laughing, “but the prospect leaves me cold.” Poirot sighed and shook his head. “_Les Anglais!___” he murmured. “No method—absolutely none whatever. They leave all to chance!” He frowned, and altered the position of the salt cellar. “Mademoiselle Cinderella is staying at the Hôtel d’Angleterre you told me, did you not?” “No. Hôtel du Phare.” “True, I forgot.” A moment’s misgiving shot across my mind. Surely I had never mentioned any hotel to Poirot. I looked across at him, and felt reassured. He was cutting his bread into neat little squares, completely absorbed in his task. He must have fancied I had told him where the girl was staying. We had coffee outside facing the sea. Poirot smoked one of his tiny cigarettes, and then drew his watch from his pocket. “The train to Paris leaves at 2:25,” he observed. “I should be starting.” “Paris?” I cried. “That is what I said, _mon ami___.” “You are going to Paris? But why?” He replied very seriously. “To look for the murderer of M. Renauld.” “You think he is in Paris?”