“You must insist.”
“Come now, Poirot, don’t be mean. You know you’re coining money.”
“My friend, it is not the meanness. It is the business sense.
If I were a millionaire, I would pay only what was just and right.”
As I had foreseen, however, Poirot was doomed to fail in this respect.
The gentleman who issued tickets at the Speedy office was calm and unimpassioned but adamant.
His point was that we ought to return.
He even implied that we ought to pay extra for the privilege of leaving the coach at Charlock Bay.
Defeated, Poirot paid over the required sum and left the office.
“The English, they have no sense of money,” he grumbled. “Did you observe a young man, Hastings, who paid over the full fare and yet mentioned his intention of leaving the coach at Monkhampton?”
“I don’t think I did.
As a matter of fact. . . .”
“You were observing the pretty young lady who booked No. 5, the next seat to ours.
Ah!
Yes, my friend, I saw you.
And that is why when I was on the point of taking seats No. 13 and 14—which are in the middle and as well sheltered as it is possible to be—you rudely pushed yourself forward and said that 3 and 4 would be better.”
“Really, Poirot,” I said, blushing.
“Auburn hair—always the auburn hair!”
“At any rate, she was more worth looking at than an odd young man.”
“That depends upon the point of view.
To me, the young man was interesting.”
Something rather significant in Poirot’s tone made me look at him quickly.
“Why?
What do you mean?”
“Oh, do not excite yourself.
Shall I say that he interested me because he was trying to grow a moustache and as yet the result is poor.” Poirot stroked his own magnificent moustache tenderly. “It is an art,” he murmured, “the growing of the moustache!
I have sympathy for all who attempt it.”
It is always difficult with Poirot to know when he is serious and when he is merely amusing himself at one’s expense.
I judged it safest to say no more.
The following morning dawned bright and sunny.
A really glorious day!
Poirot, however, was taking no chances.
He wore a woolly waistcoat, a mackintosh, a heavy overcoat, and two mufflers, in addition to wearing his thickest suit.
He also swallowed two tablets of “Anti-grippe” before starting and packed a further supply.
We took a couple of small suitcases with us.
The pretty girl we had noticed the day before had a small suitcase, and so did the young man whom I gathered to have been the object of Poirot’s sympathy.
Otherwise, there was no luggage.
The four pieces were stowed away by the driver, and we all took our places.
Poirot, rather maliciously, I thought, assigned me the outside place as “I had the mania for the fresh air” and himself occupied the seat next to our fair neighbour.
Presently, however, he made amends.
The man in seat 6 was a noisy fellow, inclined to be facetious and boisterous, and Poirot asked the girl in a low voice if she would like to change seats with him.
She agreed gratefully, and the change having been effected, she entered into conversation with us and we were soon all three chattering together merrily.
She was evidently quite young, not more than nineteen, and as ingenuous as a child.
She soon confided to us the reason for her trip.
She was going, it seemed, on business for her aunt who kept a most interesting antique shop in Ebermouth.
This aunt had been left in very reduced circumstances on the death of her father and had used her small capital and a houseful of beautiful things which her father had left her to start in business.
She had been extremely successful and had made quite a name for herself in the trade.
This girl, Mary Durrant, had come to be with her aunt and learn the business and was very excited about it—much preferring it to the other alternative—becoming a nursery governess or companion.
Poirot nodded interest and approval to all this.
“Mademoiselle will be successful, I am sure,” he said gallantly. “But I will give her a little word of advice.