“Madamey un petit moment — ” Mrs. Oliver turned. Poirot had collected from the recesses of the sofa a handsome coil of grey hair.
Mrs. Oliver exclaimed vexedly: “It’s )ust like everything that they make nowadays, no good at all! Hairpins, I mean.
They just slip out, and everything falls.” She went out frowning.
A moment or two later she poked her head round the door again. She spoke in a conspiratorial whisper: “Just tell me—it’s all right, I’ve sent her on down — did you send that girl to this particular doctor on purpose?”
“Of course I did. His qualifications are — ” “Never mind his qualifications. You know what I mean. He and she — Did you?” “If you must know, yes.”
“I thought so,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You do think of things, don’t you.”
The End