It’s his business.”
“Do you think he really knows who committed the crimes?
He said he did.”
“Probably hasn’t the faintest idea, but he’s got to keep up his professional reputation.”
Egg was silent.
Sir Charles said: “What are you thinking about, darling?”
“I was thinking about Miss Milray.
She was so odd in her manner that evening I told you about.
She had just bought the paper about the exhumation, and she said she didn’t know what to do.”
“Nonsense,” said Sir Charles cheerfully. “That woman always knows what to do.”
“Do be serious, Charles.
She sounded - worried.”
“Egg, my sweet, what do I care for Miss Milray’s worries?
What do I care for anything but you and me?”
“You’d better pay some attention to the trams!” said Egg. “I don’t want to be widowed before I’m a wife.”
They arrived back at Sir Charles’s flat for tea.
Miss Milray came out to meet them.
“There is a telegram for you, Sir Charles.”
“Thank you, Miss Milray.” He laughed, a nervous boyish laugh. “Look here, I must tell you our news.
Miss Lytton Gore and I are going to get married.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Miss Milray said:
“Oh!
I’m sure - I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”
There was a queer note in her voice.
Egg noticed it, but before she could formulate her impression Charles Cartwright had swung round to her with a quick exclamation.
“My God, Egg, look at this.
It’s from Satterthwaite.”
He shoved the telegram into her hands.
Egg read it, and her eyes opened wide.
25
Before catching their train Hercule Poirot and Mr. Satterthwaite had had a brief interview with Miss Lyndon, the late Sir Bartholomew Strange’s secretary.
Miss Lyndon had been very willing to help, but had had nothing of important to tell them.
Mrs. de Rushbridger was only mentioned in Sir Bartholomew’s casebook in a purely professional fashion.
Sir Bartholomew had never spoken of her save in medical terms.
The two men arrived at the Sanatorium about twelve o’clock.
The maid who opened the door looked excited and flushed.
Mr. Satterthwaite asked first for the Matron.
“I don’t know whether she can see you this morning,” said the girl doubtfully.
Mr. Satterthwaite extracted a card and wrote a few words on it.
“Please take her this.”
They were shown into a small waiting room.
In about five minutes the door opened and the Matron came in. she was looking quite unlike her usual brisk efficient self.
Mr. Satterthwaite rose.
“I hope you remember me,” he said. “I came here with Sir Charles Cartwright just after the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange.”
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Satterthwaite, of course I remember; and Sir Charles asked for poor Mrs. de Rushbridger the, and it seems such a coincidence.”
“Let me introduce M. Hercule Poirot.”
Poirot bowed and the Matron responded absently.
She went on: “I can’t understand how you can have had a telegram as you say. The whole thing seems most mysterious.
Surely it can’t be connected with the poor doctor’s death in any way?
There must be some madman about - that’s the only way I can account for it.