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She
laughed
a
polite
but
estranging
laugh
.
"
Well
--
that
old
lady
,
for
instance
.
You
have
probably
noticed
her
.
A
very
ugly
old
lady
,
but
rather
fascinating
.
She
has
only
to
lift
a
little
finger
and
ask
for
something
in
a
polite
voice
--
and
the
whole
train
runs
.
"
"
It
runs
also
for
my
friend
M.
Bouc
,
"
said
Poirot
.
"
But
that
is
because
he
is
a
director
of
the
line
,
not
because
he
has
a
masterful
character
.
"
Mary
Debenham
smiled
.
The
morning
wore
away
.
Several
people
,
Poirot
amongst
them
,
remained
in
the
dining
car
.
The
communal
life
was
felt
,
at
the
moment
,
to
pass
the
time
better
.
He
heard
a
good
deal
more
about
Mrs.
Hubbard
's
daughter
and
he
heard
the
lifelong
habits
of
Mr.
Hubbard
,
deceased
,
from
his
rising
in
the
morning
and
commencing
breakfast
with
a
cereal
to
his
final
rest
at
night
in
the
bedsocks
that
Mrs.
Hubbard
herself
had
been
in
the
habit
of
knitting
for
him
.
It
was
when
he
was
listening
to
a
confused
account
of
the
missionary
aims
of
the
Swedish
lady
that
one
of
the
Wagon
Lit
conductors
came
into
the
car
and
stood
at
his
elbow
.
"
Pardon
,
Monsieur
.
"
"
Yes
?
"
"
The
compliments
of
M.
Bouc
,
and
he
would
be
glad
if
you
would
be
so
kind
as
to
come
to
him
for
a
few
minutes
.
"
