The doctor nodded his head thoughtfully.
‘And she was angry? That is a good sign. It shows, you see, that she has not yet completely passed through the door. She still knows that it is not the truth! I shall cure her.’
‘Ah, you are undertaking a cure?’
‘Yes. I have discussed the matter with young Mrs Boynton and her husband. Ginevra will come to Paris and enter one of my clinics. Afterwards she will have her training for the stage.’
‘The stage?’
‘Yes—there is a possibility there for her of great success. And that is what she needs—what she must have! In many essentials she has the same nature as her mother.’
‘No!’ cried Sarah, revolted.
‘It seems impossible to you, but certain fundamental traits are the same. They were both born with a great yearning for importance; they both demand that their personality shall impress! This poor child has been thwarted and suppressed at every turn; she has been given no outlet for her fierce ambition, for her love of life, for the expression of her vivid romantic personality.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘Nous allons changer tout ça!’
Then, with a little bow, he murmured: ‘You will excuse me?’ And he hurried down the hill after the girl.
Sarah said: ‘Dr Gerard is tremendously keen on his job.’
‘I perceive his keenness,’ said Poirot.
Sarah said, with a frown: ‘All the same, I can’t bear his comparing her to that horrible old woman—although, once—I felt sorry for Mrs Boynton myself.’
‘When was that, mademoiselle?’
‘That time I told you about in Jerusalem. I suddenly felt as though I’d got the whole business wrong. You know that feeling one has sometimes when just for a short time you see everything the other way round? I got all het-up about it and went and made a fool of myself!’
‘Oh, no—not that!’
Sarah, as always when she remembered her conversation with Mrs Boynton, was blushing acutely.
‘I felt all exalted as though I had a mission! And then later, when Lady W. fixed a fishy eye on me and said she had seen me talking to Mrs Boynton, I thought she had probably overheard, and I felt the most complete ass.’
Poirot said: ‘What exactly was it that old Mrs Boynton said to you? Can you remember the exact words?’
‘I think so. They made rather an impression on me. “I never forget,” that’s what she said. “Remember that. I’ve never forgotten anything—not an action, not a name, not a face.”’ Sarah shivered. ‘She said it so malevolently—not even looking at me. I feel—I feel as if, even now, I can hear her…’
Poirot said gently: ‘It impressed you very much?’
‘Yes. I’m not easily frightened—but sometimes I dream of her saying just those words and her evil, leering triumphant face. Ugh!’ She gave a quick shiver. Then she turned suddenly to him.
‘M. Poirot, perhaps I ought not to ask, but have you come to a conclusion about this business? Have you found out anything definite?’
‘Yes.’
He saw her lips tremble as she asked, ‘What?’
‘I have found out to whom Raymond Boynton spoke that night in Jerusalem. It was to his sister Carol.’
‘Carol—of course!’
Then she went on: ‘Did you tell him—did you ask him—’
It was no use. She could not go on. Poirot looked at her gravely and compassionately. He said quietly:
‘It means—so much to you, mademoiselle?’
‘It means just everything!’ said Sarah. Then she squared her shoulders. ‘But I’ve got to know.’