THE MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR AT STYLES
I followed him as soon as I had sufficiently recovered my wits. But, by the time I had reached the top of the stairs, he was out of sight.
Mary Cavendish was standing where the staircase branched, staring down into the hall in the direction in which he had disappeared.
"What has happened to your extraordinary little friend, Mr. Hastings? He has just rushed past me like a mad bull."
"He's rather upset about something," I remarked feebly. I really did not know how much Poirot would wish me to disclose. As I saw a faint smile gather on Mrs. Cavendish's expressive mouth, I endeavoured to try and turn the conversation by saying: "They haven't met yet, have they?"
"Who?"
"Mr. Inglethorp and Miss Howard."
She looked at me in rather a disconcerting manner.
"Do you think it would be such a disaster if they did meet?"
"Well, don't you?" I said, rather taken aback.
"No." She was smiling in her quiet way. "I should like to see a good flare up. It would clear the air. At present we are all thinking so much, and saying so little."
"John doesn't think so," I remarked. "He's anxious to keep them apart."
110
