the dope in the morning.”
With this promise we took leave of him. He was as good as his word. About eleven o’clock the following day, a scribbled note reached us.
“The Dulcibella Sisters are on at the Palace in Coventry. Good luck to you.”
Without more ado, we started for Coventry. Poirot made no inquiries at the theatre, but contented himself with booking stalls for the variety performance that evening.
The show was wearisome beyond words—or perhaps it was only my mood that made it seem so. Japanese families balanced themselves precariously, would-be fashionable men, in greenish evening dress and exquisitely slicked hair, reeled off society patter and danced marvellously, stout prima donnas sang at the top of the human register, a comic comedian endeavoured to be Mr. George Robey and failed signally.
At last the number went up which announced the Dulcibella Kids. My heart beat sickeningly. There she was—there they both were, the pair of them, one flaxen haired, one dark, matching as to size, with short fluffy skirts and immense buster brown bows. They looked a pair of extremely piquant children. They began to sing. Their voices were fresh and true, rather thin and music-hally, but attractive.
It was quite a pretty little turn. They danced neatly, and did some clever little acrobatic feats. The words of their songs were crisp and catchy. When the curtain fell, there was a full meed of applause. Evidently the Dulcibella Kids were a success.
Suddenly I felt that I could remain no longer. I must get out into the air. I suggested leaving to Poirot.
“Go by all means, mon ami. I amuse myself, and will stay to the end. I will rejoin you later.”
It was only a few steps from the theatre to the hotel. I went up to the sitting-room, ordered a whisky and soda, and sat drinking it, staring meditatively into the empty grate. I heard the door open, and turned my head, thinking it was Poirot. Then I jumped to my feet. It was Cinderella who stood in the doorway. She spoke haltingly, her breath coming in little gasps.
“I saw you in front. You and your friend. When you got up to go, I was waiting outside and followed you. Why are you here—in Coventry? What were you doing there to-night? Is the man who was with you the—the detective?”
She stood there, the cloak she had wrapped round her stage dress slipping from her shoulders. I saw the whiteness of her cheeks under the rouge, and heard the terror in her voice. And in that moment I understood everything—understood why Poirot was seeking her, and what she feared, and understood at last my own heart. …
“Yes,” I said gently.
“Is he looking for—me?” she half whispered.
Then, as I did not answer for a moment, she slipped down by the big chair, and burst into violent, bitter weeping.
I knelt down by her, holding her in my arms, and smoothing the hair back from her face.
“Don’t cry, child, don’t cry, for God’s sake. You’re safe here. I’ll take care of you. Don’t cry, darling. Don’t cry. I know—I know everything.”
“Oh, but you don’t!”
“I think I do.” And after a moment, as her sobs grew quieter, I asked: “It was you who took the dagger, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“That was why you wanted me to show you round? And why you pretended to faint?”
Again she nodded. It was a strange thought to come to me at the moment, but it shot into my mind that I was glad her motive was what it had been—rather than the idle and morbid curiosity I had accused her of at the time. How gallantly she had played her part that day, inwardly racked with fear and trepidation as she must have been. Poor little soul, bearing the burden of a moment’s impetuous action.
“Why did you take the dagger?” I asked presently.
She replied as simply as a child:
“I was afraid there might be finger-marks on it.”
“But didn’t you remember that you had worn gloves?”
She shook her head as though bewildered, and then said slowly:
“Are you going to give me up to—to the Police?”
“Good God! no.”
Her eyes sought mine long and earnestly, and then she asked in a little quiet voice that sounded afraid of itself:
“Why not?”
It seemed a strange place and a strange time for a declaration of love—and God knows, in all my imagining, I had never pictured love coming to me in such a guise. But I answered simply and naturally enough:
“Because I love you, Cinderella.”
She bent her head down, as though ashamed, and muttered in a broken voice:
“You can’t—you can’t—not if you knew—” And then, as though rallying herself, she faced me squarely, and asked:
“What do you know, then?”
“I know that you came to see Mr. Renauld that night. He offered you a cheque and you tore it up indignantly. Then you left the house—” I paused.
“Go on—what next?”
“I don’t know whether you knew that Jack Renauld would be coming that night, or whether you just waited about on the chance of seeing him, but you did wait about. Perhaps you were just miserable, and walked aimlessly—but at any rate just before twelve you were still near there, and you saw a man on the golf links—”
Again I paused. I had leapt to the truth in a flash as she entered the room, but now the picture rose before me even more convincingly. I saw vividly the peculiar pattern of the overcoat on the dead body of Mr. Renauld, and I remembered the amazing likeness that had startled me into believing for one instant that the dead man had risen from the dead when his son burst into our conclave in the salon.
“Go on,” repeated the girl steadily.
“I fancy his back was to you—but you recognized him, or thought you recognized him. The gait and the carriage were familiar to you, and the pattern of his overcoat.” I paused. “You told me in the train on the way from Paris that you had Italian blood in your veins, and that you had nearly got into trouble once with it. You used a threat in one of your letters to Jack Renauld. When you saw him there, your anger and jealousy drove you mad—and you struck! I don’t believe for a minute that you meant to kill him. But you did kill him, Cinderella.”
She had flung up her hands to cover her face, and in a choked voice she said:
“You’re right … you’re right … I can see it all as you tell it.” Then she turned on me almost savagely. “And you love me? Knowing what you do, how can you love me?”
“I don’t know,” I said a little wearily. “I think love is like that—a thing one cannot help. I have tried, I know—ever since the first day I met you. And love has been too strong for me.”
And then suddenly, when I least expected it, she broke down again, casting herself down on the floor and sobbing wildly.
“Oh, I can’t!” she cried. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know which way to turn. Oh, pity me, pity me, some one, and tell me what to do!”
Again I knelt by her, soothing her as best I could.
“Don’t be afraid of me, Bella. For God’s sake don’t be afraid of me. I love you, that’s true—but I don’t want anything in return. Only let me help you. Love him still if you have to, but let me help you as he can’t.”
It was as though she had been turned to stone by my words. She raised her head from her hands and stared at me.
“You think that?” she whispered. “You think that I love Jack Renauld?”