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There
was
only
one
occupant
at
the
moment
,
obviously
the
young
English
lady
referred
to
by
the
conductor
.
She
was
tall
,
slim
and
dark
--
perhaps
twenty-eight
years
of
age
.
There
was
a
kind
of
cool
efficiency
in
the
way
she
was
eating
her
breakfast
and
in
the
way
she
called
to
the
attendant
to
bring
her
more
coffee
,
which
bespoke
a
knowledge
of
the
world
and
of
travelling
.
She
wore
a
dark-coloured
travelling
dress
of
some
thin
material
eminently
suitable
for
the
heated
atmosphere
of
the
train
.
M.
Hercule
Poirot
,
having
nothing
better
to
do
,
amused
himself
by
studying
her
without
appearing
to
do
so
.
She
was
,
he
judged
,
the
kind
of
young
woman
who
could
take
care
of
herself
with
perfect
ease
wherever
she
went
.
She
had
poise
and
efficiency
.
He
rather
liked
the
severe
regularity
of
her
features
and
the
delicate
pallor
of
her
skin
.
He
liked
the
burnished
black
head
with
its
neat
waves
of
hair
,
and
her
eyes
,
cool
,
impersonal
and
grey
.
But
she
was
,
he
decided
,
just
a
little
too
efficient
to
be
what
he
called
"
jolie
femme
.
"
Presently
another
person
entered
the
restaurant
car
.
This
was
a
tall
man
of
between
forty
and
fifty
,
lean
of
figure
,
brown
of
skin
,
with
hair
slightly
grizzled
round
the
temples
.
"
The
colonel
from
India
,
"
said
Poirot
to
himself
.
The
newcomer
gave
a
little
bow
to
the
girl
.
"
Morning
,
Miss
Debenham
.
"
"
Good
morning
,
Colonel
Arbuthnot
.
"
The
Colonel
was
standing
with
a
hand
on
the
chair
opposite
her
.
