7. The Identity of Mary Debenham

           Sheworenohat.Herheadwasthrownbackasthoughindefiance.Thesweepofherhairbackfromherface,thecurveofhernostrilsuggestedthefigureheadofashipplunginggallantlyintoaroughsea.Inthatmomentshewasbeautiful.

           HereyeswenttoArbuthnotforaminute—justaminute.

           ShesaidtoPoirot?

           “Youwishedtoseeme?”

           “Iwishedtoaskyou,Mademoiselle,whyyouliedtousthismorning?”

           “Liedtoyou?Idon’tknowwhatyoumean.”

           “YouconcealedthefactthatatthetimeoftheArmstrongtragedyyouwereactuallylivinginthehouse.YoutoldmethatyouhadneverbeeninAmerica.”

           Hesawherflinchforamomentandthenrecoverherself.

           “Yes,”shesaid.“Thatistrue.”

           “No,Mademoiselle,itwasfalse.”

           “Youmisunderstoodme.ImeanthatitistruethatIliedtoyou.”

           “Ah,youadmitit?”

           Herlipscurvedintoasmile.

           “Certainly.Sinceyouhavefoundmeout.”

           “Youareatleastfrank,Mademoiselle.”

           “Theredoesnotseemanythingelseformetobe.”

           “Well,ofcourse,thatistrue.Andnow,Mademoiselle,mayIaskyouthereasonfortheseevasions?”

           “Ishouldhavethoughtthereasonleapttotheeye,M.Poirot?”

           “Itdoesnotleaptomine,Mademoiselle.”

           Shesaidinaquiet,evenvoicewithatraceofhardnessinit:

           “Ihavemylivingtoget.”

           “Youmean—?”

           Sheraisedhereyesandlookedhimfullintheface.

           “Howmuchdoyouknow,M.