“Yes, indeed, Madame. By the way, have you a scarlet silk dressing-gown?”

“Mercy, what a funny question! Why, no. I’ve got two dressing-gowns with me – a pink flannel one that’s kind of cosy for on board ship, and one my daughter gave me as a present – a kind of local affair in purple silk. But what in creation do you want to know about my dressing gowns for?”

“Well, you see, Madame, someone in a scarlet kimono entered either your or Mr. Ratchett’s compartment last night. It is, as you said just now, very difficult when all the doors are shut to know which compartment is which.”

“Well, no one in a scarlet dressing-gown came into my compartment.”

“Then she must have gone into Mr. Ratchett’s.”

Mrs. Hubbard pursed her lips together and said grimly:

“That wouldn’t surprise me any.”

Poirot leaned forward.

“So you heard a woman’s voice next door?”

“I don’t know how you guessed that, Mr. Poirot. I don’t really. But – well – as a matter of fact, I did.”

“But when I asked you just now if you heard anything next door, you only said you heard Mr. Ratchett snoring.”

“Well, that was true enough. He did snore part of the time. As for the other—” Mrs. Hubbard got rather embarrassed. “It isn’t a very nice thing to speak about.”

“What time was it when you heard a woman’s voice?”

“I can’t tell you. I just woke up for a minute and heard a woman talking, and it was plain enough where she was. So I just thought, ‘Well, that’s the kind of man he is! I’m not surprised’—and then I went to sleep again. And I’m sure I should never have mentioned anything of the kind to three strange gentlemen if you hadn’t dragged it out of me.”

“Was it before the scare about the man in your compartment, or after?”

“Why, that’s like what you said just now! He wouldn’t have had a woman talking to him if he were dead, would he?”

“Pardon. You must think me very stupid, Madame.”

“I guess even you get kinda muddled now and then. I just can’t get over its being that monster Cassetti. What my daughter will say—”

Poirot managed adroitly to help the good lady to replace the contents of her handbag, and he then shepherded her towards the door. At the last moment, he said:

“You have dropped your handkerchief, Madame.”

Mrs. Hubbard looked at the little scrap of cambric he held out to her.

“That’s not mine, Mr. Poirot. I’ve got mine right here.”

“Pardon. I thought as it had the initial H on it—”

“Well, now, that’s funny, but it’s certainly not mine. Mine are marked C.M.H., and they’re sensible things – not expensive Paris fallals. What good is a handkerchief like that to anybody’s nose?”

None of the three men seemed to have an answer to this question and Mrs. Hubbard sailed out triumphantly.

M. Bouc was handling the button that Mrs. Hubbard had left behind her.

“This button. I cannot understand it. Does it mean that after all, Pierre Michel is involved in some way?” he asked. He paused, then continued, as Poirot did not reply. “What have you to say, my friend?”

“That button, it suggests possibilities,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Let us interview next the Swedish lady before we discuss the evidence that we have heard.” He sorted through the pile of passports in front of him. “Ah! here we are. Greta Ohlsson, age forty-nine.”

M. Bouc gave directions to the restaurant attendant, and presently the lady with the yellowish grey bun of hair and the long, mild, sheep-like face was ushered in. She peered short-sightedly at Poirot through her glasses, but was quite calm.

It transpired that she understood and spoke French, so the conversation took place in that language. Poirot first asked her the questions to which he already knew the answers – her name, age, and address. He then asked her her occupation.

She was, she told him, matron in a missionary school near Stamboul. She was a trained nurse.

“You know, of course, of what took place last night, Mademoiselle?”

“Naturally. It is very dreadful. And the American lady tells me that the murderer was actually in her compartment.”

“I hear, Mademoiselle, that you were the last person to see the murdered man alive?”

“I do not know. It may be so. I opened the door of his compartment by mistake. I was much ashamed. It was a most awkward mistake.”

“You actually saw him?”

“Yes. He was reading a book. I apologised quickly and withdrew.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

A slight flush showed on the worthy lady’s cheek.

“He laughed and said a few words. I–I did not quite catch them.”

“And what did you do after that, Mademoiselle?” asked Poirot, passing from the subject tactfully.

“I went in to the American lady, Mrs. Hubbard. I asked her for some aspirin and she gave it to me.”

“Did she ask you whether the communicating door between her compartment and that of Mr. Ratchett was bolted?”

“Yes.”

“And was it?”

“Yes.”

“And after that?”

“After that I went back to my compartment, took the aspirin, and lay down.”

“What time was all this?”

“When I got into bed it was five minutes to eleven. I know because I looked at my watch before I wound it up.”

“Did you go to sleep quickly?”

“Not very quickly. My head got better, but I lay awake some time.”

“Had the train come to a stop before you went to sleep?”

“I do not think so. We stopped, I think, at a station just as I was getting drowsy.”

“That would be Vincovci. Now your compartment, Mademoiselle, is this one?” He indicated it on the plan.

“That is so, yes.”

“You had the upper or the lower berth?”

“The lower berth, No. 10.”

“And you had a companion?’

“Yes, a young English lady. Very nice, very amiable. She had travelled from Baghdad.”

“After the train left Vincovci, did she leave the compartment?”

“No, I am sure she did not.”

“Why are you sure if you were asleep?”

“I sleep very lightly. I am used to waking at a sound. I am sure that if she had come down from the berth above I should have awakened.”

“Did you yourself leave the compartment?”

“Not until this morning.”

“Have you a scarlet silk kimono, Mademoiselle?”

“No, indeed. I have a good comfortable dressing-gown of Jaeger material. A pale mauve aba such as you buy in the East.”

Poirot nodded. Then he asked in a friendly tone:

“Why are you taking this journey? A holiday?”

“Yes, I am going home for a holiday. But first I am going to Lausanne to stay with a sister for a week or so.”

“Perhaps you will be so amiable as to write me down the name and address of your sister?’

“With pleasure.”

She took the paper and pencil he gave her and wrote down the name and address as requested.

“Have you ever been in America, Mademoiselle?”

“No. I very nearly went once. I was to go with an invalid lady, but the plan was cancelled at the last moment. I much regretted this. They are very good, the Americans. They give much money to found schools and hospitals. And they are very practical.”

“Do you remember hearing of the Armstrong kidnapping case?”

“No, what was that?”