But it is not everything in life that has its ticket, so much.
There are things that are not for sale."
"Nonsense!"
He smiled very faintly.
In her voice was the arrogance of the successful mill hand who had risen to riches.
Hercule Poirot felt a sudden wave of pity.
He looked at the ageless smooth face, the weary eyes, and he remembered the girl whom Amyas Crale had painted.
Elsa Dittisham said,
"Tell me all about this book.
What is the purpose of it?
Whose idea is it?"
"Oh, my dear lady, what other purpose is there but to serve up yesterday's sensation with today's sauce?"
"But you're not a writer?"
"No, I am an expert on crime."
"You mean, they consult you on crime books?"
"Not always.
In this case, I have a commission."
"From whom?"
"I am - what do you say? - working on this publication on behalf of an interested party."
"What party?"
"Miss Carla Lemarchant."
"Who is she?"
"She is the daughter of Amyas and Caroline Crale."
Elsa stared for a minute.
Then she said:
"Oh, of course, there was a child.
I remember.
I suppose she's grown up now?"
"Yes, she is twenty-one."
"What is she like?"
"She is tall and dark and, I think, beautiful.
And she has courage and personality."
Elsa said thoughtfully,
"I should like to see her."
"She might not care to see you."
Elsa looked surprised.
"Why?
Oh, I see.
But what nonsense!
She can't possibly remember anything about it.
She can't have been more than six."
"She knows that her mother was tried for her father's murder."
"And she thinks it's my fault?"
"It is a possible interpretation."
Elsa shrugged her shoulders.
"How stupid!" she said.
"If Caroline had behaved like a reasonable human being -"
"So you take no responsibility?"
"Why should I?
I've nothing to be ashamed of.