"She's been a go-getter.
She's had three husbands since then.
In and out of the divorce court as easy as you please.
And every time she makes a change, it's for the better.
Lady Dittisham - that's who she is now.
Open any Tatler and you're sure to find her."
"And the other two?"
"There was the governess woman.
I don't remember her name. Nice, capable woman.
Thompson - Jones - something like that.
And there was the child. Caroline Crale's half sister.
She must have been about fifteen.
She's made rather a name for herself.
Digs up things and goes trekking to the back of beyond.
Warren - that's her name. Angela Warren. Rather an alarming young woman nowadays.
I met her the other day."
"She is not, then, the little pig who cried, 'Wee-wee-wee'...?"
Sir Montague Depleach looked at him rather oddly.
He said dryly,
"She's had something to cry wee-wee about in her life!
She's disfigured, you know. Got a bad scar down one side of her face.
She - oh, well, you'll hear all about it, I dare say."
Poirot stood up.
He said, "I thank you.
You have been very kind.
If Mrs Crale did not kill her husband -"
Depleach interrupted him.
"But she did, old boy, she did.
Take my word for it."
Poirot continued without taking any notice of the interruption.
"Then it seems logical to suppose that one of these five people must have done so."
"One of them could have done it, I suppose," said Depleach doubtfully. "But I don't see why any of them should.
No reason at all!
In fact, I m quite sure none of them did do it.
Do get this bee out of your bonnet, old boy!"
But Hercule Poirot only smiled and shook his head.
"Guilty as hell," said Mr Fogg succinctly.
Hercule Poirot looked meditatively at the thin, clear-cut face of the barrister.
Quentin Fogg, K.C., was a very different type from Montague Depleach.
Depleach had force, magnetism, an overbearing and slightly bullying personality.
He got his effects by a rapid and dramatic change of manner.
Handsome, urbane, charming, one minute - then an almost magical transformation, lips back, snarling smile - out for your blood.
Quentin Fogg was thin, pale, singularly lacking in what is called personality.
His questions were quiet and unemotional, but they were steadily persistent.
Hercule Poirot eyed him meditatively.
"So that," he said, "was how it struck you?"
Fogg nodded. He said,
"You should have seen her in the box.
Old Humpie Rudolph (he was leading, you know) simply made mincemeat of her.
Mincemeat!" He paused and then said unexpectedly,