Timothy had been having a bout of fever.
We said he had died of it.
We buried him there beside the Amazon." A deep tortured sigh shook her form. "And then - back to civilization - and to part forever."
"Was it necessary, madame?"
"Yes, yes.
Timothy dead stood between us just as Timothy alive had done - more so.
We said good-by to each other - forever.
I meet John Despard sometimes, out in the world.
We smile, we speak politely; no one would ever guess that there was anything between us.
But I see in his eyes - and he in mine - that we will never forget."
There was a long pause. Poirot paid tribute to the curtain by not breaking the silence.
Mrs. Luxmore took out a vanity case and powdered her nose. The spell was broken.
"What a tragedy," said Poirot, but in a more everyday tone.
"You can see, Monsieur Poirot," said Mrs. Luxmore earnestly, "that the truth must never be told."
"It would be painful -"
"It would be impossible.
This friend, this writer - surely he would not wish to blight the life of a perfectly innocent woman?"
"Or even to hang a perfectly innocent man?" murmured Poirot.
"You see it like that?
I am so glad.
He was innocent.
A crime passionnel is not really a crime.
And in any case it was in self-defense.
He had to shoot.
So you do understand Monsieur Poirot, that the world must continue to think Timothy died of fever?"
Poirot murmured, "Writers are sometimes curiously callous."
"Your friend is a woman hater?
He wants to make us suffer?
But you must not allow that.
I shall not allow it.
If necessary I shall take the blame on myself.
I shall say I shot Timothy."
She had risen to her feet. Her head was thrown back.
Poirot also rose.
"Madame," he said as he took her hand "such splendid self-sacrifice, is unnecessary.
I will do my best so that the true facts shall never be known."
A sweet womanly smile stole over Mrs. Luxmore's face.
She raised her hand slightly, so that Poirot, whether he had meant to do so or not, was forced to kiss it.
"An unhappy woman thanks you, Monsieur Poirot," she said.
It was the last word of a persecuted queen to a favored courtier - clearly an exit line.
Poirot duly made his exit.
Once out in the street, he drew a long breath of fresh air.
Chapter 21 MAJOR DESPARD
"Quelle femme!" murmured Hercule Poirot. "Ce pauvre Despard!
Ce qu'il a du souffrir!
Quel voyage epouvantable!"
Suddenly he began to laugh.
He was now walking along the Brompton Road.
He paused, took out his watch, and made a calculation.
"But, yes, I have the time.