Chapter 10 – Nick's Secret

It was daylight when I awoke.

Poirot was still sitting where he had been the night before. His attitude was the same, but in his face was a difference. His eyes were shining with that queer catlike green light that I knew so well.

I struggled to an upright position, feeling very stiff and uncomfortable. Sleeping in a chair is a proceeding not to be recommended at my time of life. Yet one thing at least resulted from it-I awoke not in that pleasant state of lazy somnolence but with a mind and brain as active as when I fell asleep.

'Poirot,' I cried. 'You have thought of something.'

He nodded. He leaned forward, tapping the table in front of him.

'Tell me, Hastings, the answer to these three questions. Why has Mademoiselle Nick been sleeping badly lately? Why did she buy a black evening dress-she never wears black? Why did she say last night, "I have nothing to live for-now"?'

I stared. The questions seemed beside the point.

'Answer those questions, Hastings, answer them.'

'Well-as to the first-she said she had been worried lately.'

'Precisely. What has she been worried about?'

'And the black dress-well, everybody wants a change sometimes.'

'For a married man, you have very little appreciation of feminine psychology. If a woman thinks she does not look well in a colour, she refuses to wear it.'

'And the last-well, it was a natural thing to say after that awful shock.'

'No, mon ami, it was not a natural thing to say. To be horror-struck by her cousin's death, to reproach herself for it-yes, all that is natural enough. But the other, no. She spoke of life with weariness-as of a thing no longer dear to her. Never before had she displayed that attitude. She had been defiant-yes-she had snapped the fingers, yes-and then, when that broke down, she was afraid. Afraid, mark you, because life was sweet and she did not wish to die. But weary of life-no! That never! Even before dinner that was not so. We have there, Hastings, a psychological change. And that is interesting. What was it caused her point of view to change?'

'The shock of her cousin's death.'

'I wonder. It was the shock that loosed her tongue. But suppose the change was before that. Is there anything else could account for it?'

'I don't know of anything.'

'Think, Hastings. Use your little grey cells.'

'Really-'

'What was the last moment we had the opportunity of observing her?'

'Well, actually, I suppose, at dinner.'

'Exactly. After that, we only saw her receiving guests, making them welcome-purely a formal attitude. What happened at the end of dinner, Hastings?'

'She went to telephone,' I said, slowly.

'A la bonne heure. You have got there at last. She went to telephone. And she was absent a long time. Twenty minutes at least. That is a long time for a telephone call. Who spoke to her over the telephone? What did they say? Did she really telephone? We have to find out, Hastings, what happened in that twenty minutes. For there, or so I fully believe, we shall find the clue we seek.'

'You really think so?'

'Mais oui, mais oui! All along, Hastings, I have told you that Mademoiselle has been keeping something back. She doesn't think it has any connection with the murder-but I, Hercule Poirot, know better! It must have a connection. For, all along, I have been conscious that there is a factor lacking. If there were not a factor lacking-why then, the whole thing would be plain to me! And as it is not plain to me-eh bien-then the missing factor is the keystone of the mystery! I know I am right, Hastings. I must know the answer to those three questions. And, then-and then-I shall begin to see...'

'Well,' I said, stretching my stiffened limbs, 'I think a bath and a shave are indicated.'

By the time I had had a bath and changed into day clothing I felt better. The stiffness and weariness of a night passed in uncomfortable conditions passed off. I arrived at the breakfast table feeling that one drink of hot coffee would restore me to my normal self.

I glanced at the paper, but there was little news in it beyond the fact that Michael Seton's death was now definitely confirmed. The intrepid airman had perished. I wondered whether, tomorrow, new headlines would have sprung into being: 'GIRL MURDERED DURING FIREWORK PARTY. MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY.' Something like that.

I had just finished breakfast when Frederica Rice came up to my table. She was wearing a plain little frock of black marocain with a little soft pleated white collar. Her fairness was more evident than ever.

'I want to see M. Poirot, Captain Hastings. Is he up yet, do you know?'

'I will take you up with me now,' I said. 'We shall find him in the sitting-room.'

'Thank you.'

'I hope,' I said, as we left the dining-room together, 'that you didn't sleep too badly?'

'It was a shock,' she said, in a meditative voice. 'But, of course, I didn't know the poor girl. It's not as though it had been Nick.'

'I suppose you'd never met this girl before?'

'Once-at Scarborough. She came over to lunch with Nick.'

'It will be a terrible blow to her father and mother,' I said.

'Dreadful.'

But she said it very impersonally. She was, I fancied, an egoist. Nothing was very real to her that did not concern herself.

Poirot had finished his breakfast and was sitting reading the morning paper. He rose and greeted Frederica with all his customary Gallic politeness.

'Madame,' he said. 'Enchante!' He drew forward a chair.

She thanked him with a very faint smile and sat down. Her two hands rested on the arms of the chair. She sat there very upright, looking straight in front of her. She did not rush into speech. There was something a little frightening about her stillness and aloofness.

'M. Poirot,' she said at last. 'I suppose there is no doubt that this-sad business last night was all part and parcel of the same thing? I mean-that the intended victim was really Nick?'

'I should say, Madame, that there was no doubt at all.'

Frederica frowned a little.

'Nick bears a charmed life,' she said.

There was some curious undercurrent in her voice that I could not understand.

'Luck, they say, goes in cycles,' remarked Poirot.

'Perhaps. It is certainly useless to fight against it.'

Now there was only weariness in her tone. After a moment or two, she went on. 

'I must beg your pardon, M. Poirot. Nick's pardon, too. Up till last night I did not believe. I never dreamed that the danger was-serious.'

'Is that so, Madame?'

'I see now that everything will have to be gone into-carefully. And I imagine that Nick's immediate circle of friends will not be immune from suspicion. Ridiculous, of course, but there it is. Am I right, M. Poirot?'

'You are very intelligent, Madame.'

'You asked me some questions about Tavistock the other day, M. Poirot. As you will find out sooner or later, I might as well tell you the truth now. I was not at Tavistock.'

'No, Madame?'

'I motored down to this part of the world with Mr Lazarus early last week. We did not wish to arouse more comment than necessary. We stayed at a little place called Shellacombe.'

'That is, I think, about seven miles from here, Madame?'

'About that-yes.'

Still that quiet far-away weariness.

'May I be impertinent, Madame?'

'Is there such a thing-in these days?'

'Perhaps you are right, Madame. How long have you and M. Lazarus been friends?'

'I met him six months ago.'

'And you-care for him, Madame?'

Frederica shrugged her shoulders.

'He is-rich.'

'Oh! La la,' cried Poirot. 'That is an ugly thing to say.'

She seemed faintly amused.

'Isn't it better to say it myself-than to have you say it for me?'

'Well-there is always that, of course. May I repeat, Madame, that you are very intelligent.'

'You will give me a diploma soon,' said Frederica, and rose. 'There is nothing more you wish to tell me, Madame?'

'I do not think so-no. I am going to take some flowers round to Nick and see how she is.'

'Ah, that is very amiable of you. Thank you, Madame, for your frankness.'

She glanced at him sharply, seemed about to speak, then thought better of it and went out of the room, smiling faintly at me as I held the door open for her.

'She is intelligent,' said Poirot. 'Yes, but so is Hercule Poirot!' 'What do you mean?'

'That it is all very well and very pretty to force the richness of M. Lazarus down my throat-'

'I must say that rather disgusted me.'

'Mon cher, always you have the right reaction in the wrong place. It is not, for the moment, a question of good taste or otherwise. If Madame Rice has a devoted friend who is rich and can give her all she needs-why then obviously Madame Rice would not need to murder her dearest friend for a mere pittance.'

'Oh!' I said.

'Precisement! "Oh!"' 

'Why didn't you stop her going to the nursing home?'

'Why should I show my hand? Is it Hercule Poirot who prevents Mademoiselle Nick from seeing her friends? Quelle idee! It is the doctors and the nurses. Those tiresome nurses! So full of rules and regulations and "doctors' orders".'

'You're not afraid that they may let her in after all? Nick may insist.'

'Nobody will be let in, my dear Hastings, but you and me. And for that matter, the sooner we make our way there, the better.'

The sitting-room door flew open and George Challenger barged in. His tanned face was alive with indignation.

'Look here, M. Poirot,' he said. 'What's the meaning of this? I rang up that damned nursing home where Nick is. Asked how she was and what time I could come round and see her. And they say the doctor won't allow any visitors. I want to know the meaning of that. To put it plainly, is this your work? Or is Nick really ill from shock?'

'I assure you, Monsieur, that I do not lay down rules for nursing homes. I would not dare. Why not ring up the good doctor-what was his name now?-Ah, yes, Graham.'

'I have. He says she's going on as well as could be expected-usual stuff. But I know all the tricks-my uncle's a doctor. Harley Street. Nerve specialist. Psychoanalysis-all the rest of it. Putting relations and friends off with soothing words. I've heard about it all. I don't believe Nick isn't up to seeing any one. I believe you're at the bottom of this, M. Poirot.'

Poirot smiled at him in a very kindly fashion. Indeed, I have always observed that Poirot has a kindly feeling for a lover.

'Now listen to me, mon ami,' he said. 'If one guest is admitted, others cannot be kept out. You comprehend? It must be all or none. We want Mademoiselle's safety, you and I, do we not? Exactly. Then, you understand-it must be none.'

'I get you,' said Challenger, slowly. 'But then-'

'Chut! We will say no more. We will forget even what we have said. The prudence, the extreme prudence, is what is needed at present.'

'I can hold my tongue,' said the sailor quietly.

He turned away to the door, pausing as he went out to say: 'No embargo on flowers, is there? So long as they are not white ones.'

Poirot smiled.

'And now,' he said, as the door shut behind the impetuous Challenger, 'whilst M. Challenger and Madame and perhaps M. Lazarus all encounter each other in the flower shop, you and I will drive quietly to our destination.'

'And ask for the answer to the three questions?' I said.

'Yes. We will ask. Though, as a matter of fact, I know the answer.'

'What?' I exclaimed.

'Yes.'

'But when did you find out?'

'Whilst I was eating my breakfast, Hastings. It stared me in the face.'

'Tell me.'

'No, I will leave you to hear it from Mademoiselle.'

Then, as if to distract my mind, he pushed an open letter across to me.

It was a report by the expert Poirot had sent to examine the picture of old Nicholas Buckley. It stated definitely that the picture was worth at most twenty pounds.

'So that is one matter cleared up,' said Poirot.

'No mouse in that mouse-hole,' I said, remembering a metaphor of Poirot's on one past occasion.

'Ah! you remember that? No, as you say, no mouse in that mouse-hole. Twenty pounds and M. Lazarus offered fifty. What an error of judgement for a seemingly astute young man. But there, there, we must start on our errand.'

The nursing home was set high on a hill overlooking the bay. A white-coated orderly received us. We were put into a little room downstairs and presently a brisk-looking nurse came to us.

One glance at Poirot seemed to be enough. She had clearly received her instructions from Dr Graham together with a minute description of the little detective. She even concealed a smile.

'Miss Buckley has passed a very fair night,' she said. 'Come up, will you?'

In a pleasant room with the sun streaming into it, we found Nick. In the narrow iron bed, she looked like a tired child. Her face was white and her eyes were suspiciously red, and she seemed listless and weary.

'It's good of you to come,' she said in a flat voice.

Poirot took her hand in both of his.

'Courage, Mademoiselle. There is always something to live for.'

The words startled her. She looked up in his face.

'Oh!' she said. 'Oh!'

'Will you not tell me now, Mademoiselle, what it was that has been worrying you lately? Or shall I guess? And may I offer you, Mademoiselle, my very deepest sympathy.'

Her face flushed.

'So you know. Oh, well, it doesn't matter who knows now. Now that it's all over. Now that I shall never see him again.'

Her voice broke.

'Courage, Mademoiselle.'

'I haven't got any courage left. I've used up every bit in these last weeks. Hoping and hoping and-just lately-hoping against hope.'

I stared. I could not understand one word.

'Regard the poor Hastings,' said Poirot. 'He does not know what we are talking about.'

Her unhappy eyes met mine.

'Michael Seton, the airman,' she said. 'I was engaged to him-and he's dead.'

第十章　尼克的秘密

我醒来的时候已经天大亮了。

波洛还坐在昨天夜里那个老地方一步未移，而且还是那个姿势。但他脸上的表情不同了，他的眼睛里闪耀着我熟悉的绿光，就像猫的眼睛一样。

我勉强坐直了身子，感到浑身僵硬，怪不舒服的。在我这样的年纪上，坐在椅子里睡觉实在不是件值得提倡的事儿。它至少造成了一个后果：醒过来之后没有一点儿舒适的甜美味儿——像在床上睡了一夜醒过来所感觉到的那样。我的脑子不像昨夜睡前那样紧张。

“波洛！”我叫道：

“你可想出点什么没有？”

他点点头，向前凑了凑，用手指敲着面前的桌子，说：

“黑斯廷斯，回答我三个问题：为什么近来尼克小姐睡眠不好？为什么她从来不穿黑衣服却去买了件黑色的晚礼服？为什么昨晚她说‘我现在还留恋什么？死对我只是解脱？’”

我怔住了。这些问题能有什么意义呢？

“回答这些问题吧，黑斯廷斯，回答吧。”

“好吧。第一个问题可以这样回答：她说过她近来心中担忧，所以睡不好。”

“对。她担忧什么呢？”

“至于第二个问题，黑衣服——唔，人人都喜欢换换口味的。”

“你是个已婚男子，可是对于女人的心理你简直完全不懂。一个女人一旦认定某种颜色对自己不适宜，她就再也不肯去穿这种颜色的衣服。”

“最后一个问题——受了惊吓之后说出这种话来原是很自然的嘛。”

“不，我的朋友，不自然。被表姐的惨死吓得半死，为这种落在别人头上的横祸而责备自己，这些都很自然。但用那样的语气说出那样的话来，不，不是自然的。她用厌恶的口气说到生命，而不久前生命对她来说还十分宝贵——意味着幸福的憧憬。在那之前她从没流露过厌世情绪呀。以前她什么都觉得有趣，什么都拿来打哈哈取乐。后来，当她意识到她的生命受到严重的威胁之后，这种无忧无虑的精神崩溃了，理所当然地产生了恐惧。请注意，她之所以会感到恐惧，是因为生活对于她来说是甜蜜的，值得留恋的。她渴望活下去。厌倦生命吗？不，从来没有过，甚至在昨天吃晚饭之前都还不是这样的。黑斯廷斯，我们在这里发现了一个心理上的变化，这是很有启发性的。是什么使得她对生命的看法改变了呢？”

“是她表姐之死。”

“不，不，她表组之死使得她一时不慎泄漏了天机而已。这种对生命的看法在那之前可能就已经改变了。什么事情能够引起这种改变呢？”

“我什么也说不出。”

“想一想，黑斯廷斯，动动脑筋吧。”

“真的想不出。”

“我们最后有机会来观察她——在悲剧之前——是什么时候？”

“我想，是在吃晚饭的时候。”

“很对。那以后我们只见她庄重地迎接来宾。晚饭吃完的时候发生了件什么事？”

“她去打电话了。”我边想边说。

“对啦，你总算说到点子上了。她去打电话，去了很久，至少二十分钟。这对于打电话来说好像太长了一点。谁在跟她通话？他们说了些什么？她真的打了电话吗？这些都有待查明，黑斯廷斯。只要查明那二十分钟里发生了什么事，我相信，我们就会找到我们最关键的线索。”

“你这样想吗？”

“当然，黑斯廷斯，我一直跟你讲，尼克有些事没告诉我们。她觉得那些事与此案无关，但我，赫尔克里·波洛才能判断到底有关无关。我总感到我所掌握的事实当中少了点重要的东西。必定还有一个事实是我们至今还不知道的。正因此，我到今天还在五里雾中东碰西撞。也正因为我到今天还看不透这层层迷雾，才使我更确信我还没有掌握的那个事实就是本案的钥匙。我不会弄错的，黑斯廷斯。我必须知道那三个问题的答案，然后我就可以看出……”

“好吧，”我说着伸了伸发僵的双臂，“我想，我得去刮刮胡子洗个澡了。”

洗完澡，换上日常衣服之后我觉得好些了。由于一夜睡得不舒服而产生的酸痛和不愉快都已烟消云散。我来到早饭桌旁，心想，喝上一杯热咖啡一定会使我完全恢复过来的。

我瞟了报纸一眼，那上面除了一条消息说迈克尔·塞顿之死已被证实之外，简直没有东西值得一看。唉，那个勇敢的小伙子死了。我心中暗想，明天报纸的头版头条新闻会不会出现这一类耸人听闻的标题：

神秘的惨案！

——焰火晚会红颜殒命。

刚吃完早饭，弗雷德里卡·赖斯就走到我桌旁。她穿了件软褶白领的黑色皱纹绸上衣，丰采有加。

“我要见波洛先生，黑斯廷斯上尉，你知道他起床了没有？”

“我现在就领你到楼上去，”我说，“我们可以在起居间里见到他的。”

“谢谢。”

“我希望，”我们一起离开餐厅时，我说，“你的睡眠没有受到影响吧？”

“真把人吓坏了，”她说得很慢，“但是，当然啰，我同那位可怜的姑娘不熟，我跟她的关系不像跟尼克。”

“我猜你以前没见过那姑娘吧？”

“见过一次，在斯卡伯勒。她来跟尼克一起吃午饭。”

“这件祸事对她父母可真是个巨大的打击。”我说。

“太可怕了。”

但她说话的口气说明她觉得此事完全与己无关。我私下里想，这位太太太自私了，只要事不关己，她什么都无所谓。

波洛已经吃完了早点，正坐着看报，他站起身来，用他那种高卢人的礼貌迎接弗雷德里卡。

“太太，”他说，“非常高兴，不胜欢迎！”

说着给她拖了把椅子过来。

她谢谢他，微笑着坐了下来，两条膀子搁在扶手上。她并没有急于开口，只是直挺挺地坐在那儿，两眼直视前方。这种沉默叫人好生不自在。后来她终于说话了。

“波洛先生，我想，昨晚发生的那件不幸的事，同以前的没有什么两样。我是说，凶手想加害的是尼克。”

“太太，这一点当是无疑的。”

弗雷德里卡皱了皱眉头，说：

“尼克每次都能逃避灾祸，真有神佑！”

我听得出她话里有话，但那是什么呢？

“他们说祸福永远是均衡的，周而复始，循环不已。”波洛有一套跟妇女周旋的陈辞滥调，听起来很有哲学意味，仿佛寓意深远，其实空洞无物，只是缓兵之计。

“可能。和命运对抗是没有用的。”

这时她的声音只有厌倦。后来她又接着说：

“我得请你原谅，波洛先生，也请尼克原谅。我直到昨晚才相信了这一切。那以前我从来没有想到过这种危险——会是真的。”

“是吗，太太？”

“我现在看得出每件事都将被仔细研究，并且尼克周围的人都将成为怀疑对象。虽然可笑，却是真情。波洛先生，我说得对不对？”

“你极为聪明，太太。”

“那天你问了我一些塔维斯托克的问题，波洛先生。既然你迟早会发现，我还是现在就把真情告诉你为好。我不在塔维斯托克。”

“不在，太太？”

“我同拉扎勒斯先生上个星期一就开着汽车到这一带来了。我们不希望引起人们注意，就住在一个叫谢拉科姆的小地方。”

“我想，那地方离这里大约七英里吧，太太？”

“大概是的。”说话的声音还是那么冷漠。

“我可以请问一个十分失礼的问题吗？太太？”

“现在是什么时候，还顾得上这些！”

“太太，你可能是对的。那么，你同拉扎勒斯做朋友有多久了？”

“我是半年之前遇到他的。”

“你——对他很有意思，太太？”

弗雷德里卡耸耸肩：“他——很有钱。”

“哦！”波洛叫道，“这种话说出来可不大好听。”

她像是觉得有趣：“与其你来说，还不如我自己来说吧。”

“嗯，当然总是这样的。我是否可以再重复一遍，太太，你极为聪明。”

“你大概很快就要授给我一张智力证书了吧。”弗雷德里卡说着站了起来。

“没有别的事要告诉我了吗，太太？”

“我想没有了。我要带些花儿去看尼克。”

“啊，你想得多周到。太太，谢谢你的坦率。”

她目光炯炯地盯了他一眼，欲言又止，转身向房门走去。我替她开门的时候她朝我淡淡一笑。

见她走了，波洛说：“她好聪明，但赫尔克里·波洛也颇有头脑！”

“你这是什么意思？”

“她这是强迫我接受‘拉扎勒斯是有钱的’这个概念的一个好方法呀！”

“我得说，这位弗雷德里卡因为拉扎勒斯有钱而跟他拉拉扯扯，可真叫我恶心。”

“我亲爱的，你老是把正确的观点用到错误的地方去。现在根本不是情操高尚与否的问题。问题是：如果赖斯太太有一个能够满足她一切欲望的忠实而又有钱的男朋友，她就根本不必为了一点微不足道的钱财去谋杀她最要好的女友！”

“哦！”我恍然大悟。

“这才‘哦！’”

“你为什么不阻止她到休养所去。”

“干么要我来插手？是赫尔克里·波洛不让尼克小姐会见朋友吗？多笨的想法！不让见尼克的是医生和护士，是那些讨厌的护士，那些只知道规章制度，一天到晚对你说‘这是医生的指示’的护士！”

“你不怕他们或许会让她进去？尼克可能会坚持要见她的。”

“亲爱的黑斯廷斯，除了你我之外，谁也进不去的。我们现在就去看尼克，越快越好。”

起居间的门被撞开了。乔治·查林杰怒气冲冲地闯了进来。

“喂，波洛先生，”他说，“你这是什么意思？我打电话到尼克住的那家该死的休养所去探问她的病情，并且问他们我什么时候可以去看她，他们说医生不让任何人探望尼克。我要知道这是什么意思。直说吧，是你下的禁令，还是尼克真的吓成大病了？”

“我告诉你，先生，我无权过问休养所的事。我不敢这么做。你为什么不打电话去问问医生？他叫什么来着？哦，叫格雷厄姆。”

“我打过电话给他了。他说她恢复得就像预料中一样好。老调子，但我很知道这一套。我舅舅就是个医生，在哈利街开业，神经科专家、心理分析家，还有许多其它头衔。把亲戚朋友挡回去的各种手法我全知道。我不相信尼克的健康情况不允许她会客。我相信是你在里头捣鬼，波洛先生！”

波洛对他温厚地笑了笑，我注意到他对热恋中的情人向来特别宽容。

“现在请听我说，我的朋友，”他说，“要是一个人可以进去，其余的就谁也挡不住了。你听懂我的意思没有？或者全让进去，或者一个也不让。我们关心的是尼克的安全，你和我，对不对？对！那么你当然看得出，必须一个都不让进。”

“我懂了，”查林杰慢吞吞地说，“不过……”

“行了，我们不多说了，甚至还要把刚才说的话也全部忘掉。谨慎，绝对的谨慎，这就是目前我们特别需要的。”

“我可以守口如瓶，”那海员轻轻地说。他转身走到门口又停下来说：

“鲜花总不禁运吧？只要不是白色的。”

波洛笑了。

门在查林杰身后关上的时候，波洛说：

“现在，查林杰，赖斯太太，可能还有拉扎勒斯都一窝蜂涌进了花店，我们悄悄地把汽车开到休养所去吧。”

“去搞清那三个问题的答案？”

“是的，我们要问一下，虽然事实上我已经知道了。”

“什么？”我惊叫了一声。

“是的。”

“你是什么时候想出来的？”

“在我吃早点的时候，黑斯廷斯，答案自己寻上门来了。”

“告诉我吧。”

“不，让你亲耳从小姐那里听到答案吧。”

然后，为了分散我的注意力，他把一封拆开的信推到我面前。这是波洛请来鉴定老尼克·巴克利画像的专家寄来的，里头是一份鉴定报告。报告肯定地指出那幅画最多只值二十英镑。

“瞧，一个疑点澄清了。”波洛说。

“这个洞里没有耗子，”我说，因为我记得过去在这种情况下波洛曾说过这句话。

“啊，你还记得这句话！不错，正如你所说的，这个洞里没有耗子。一幅画只值二十英镑而拉扎勒斯却出价五十镑。这个外表精明的年轻人的判断力多糟糕！不过，啊，我们应当出发去办我们的事儿了。”

那个休养所座落在一座小山头上，高高地俯瞰着海湾。一个穿着白衣的服务员带我们走进楼下一个小会客室，接着马上来了一位动作轻快敏捷的护士。她一眼就认出了波洛。很明显，她已经从格雷厄姆医生那里得到了指示，并听医生详细形容过这位侦探的外貌。此时她面含笑意。

“巴克利小姐夜里睡得很好，”她说，“跟我来吧。”

我们在一间阳光充足令人愉快的房间里见到了尼克。她躺在一张狭窄的铁床上，活像个疲倦的小孩。她脸色很白，双眼却红得可疑，一副无精打采的模样。

“你们来了可真好，”她毫无感情地说。

波洛把她的纤纤玉手握在自己的双手中间，说：“勇敢些，小姐，活着总是美好的。”

这些话使她一惊。她端详着波洛的脸。

“哦，”她说，“哦——”

“你现在肯不肯告诉我，小姐，是什么事使你近来郁郁寡欢？还是要我来猜一下，并对你表示极其深切的同情呢？”

她脸红了。

“你知道了，啊，现在谁知道了都没有关系，一切全都成了过眼烟云，我再也看不见他了。”

她失声痛哭起来。

“勇敢些，小姐。”

“勇气，我一点也没有了。在过去几个星期里勇气全用完了。我一直抱着希望，直到最近还在一厢情愿地希望着。”

我愣愣地站着，什么也不明白。

“你看可怜的黑斯廷斯，”波洛说，“我们现在说的话他连一个字也听不懂。”

她那黯然失色的眼光遇上了我莫名其妙的眼光。

“迈克尔·塞顿，那位飞行员，”尼克说，“我已经跟他订了婚，可是他死了。”