"Your name is Mary Hermione Debenham, and you are twenty-six years of age?" began Poirot.

She complied. Her writing was clear and legible.

"I don't quite understand you."

"Does it distress you very much, Mademoiselle, that a crime has been committed on this train?"

She sat down opposite Poirot and M. Bouc and looked at them inquiringly.

"Yes."

"Will you be so kind, Mademoiselle, as to write down your permanent address on this piece of paper?"

"And now, Mademoiselle, what have you to tell us of the affair last night?"

When Mary Debenham entered the dining car she confirmed Poirot's previous estimate of her. Very neatly dressed in a little black suit with a French grey shirt, the smooth waves of her dark head were neat and unruffled. Her manner was as calm and unruffled as her hair.

"I am afraid I have nothing to tell you. I went to bed and slept."

"Yes."

"English?"

The question was clearly unexpected. Her grey eyes widened a little.

"It was a perfectly simple question that I asked you, Mademoiselle. I will repeat it. Are you very much distressed that a crime should have been committed on this train?"

"It is naturally an unpleasant thing to have happen," said Mary Debenham quietly.

"You are, I think, a little bit contemptuous of the way I prosecute my inquiries," he said with a twinkle. "Not so, you think, would an English inquiry be conducted. There everything would be cut and dried -- it would be all kept to the facts -- a well-ordered business. But I, Mademoiselle, have my little originalities. I look first at my witness, I sum up his or her character, and I frame my questions accordingly. Just a little minute ago I am asking questions of a gentleman who wants to tell me all his ideas on every subject. Well, him I keep strictly to the point. I want him to answer yes or no, this or that. And then you come. I see at once that you will be orderly and methodical. You will confine yourself to the matter in hand. Your answers will be brief and to the point. And because, Mademoiselle, human nature is perverse, I ask of you quite different questions. I ask what you feel, what you thought. It does not please you this method?"

She smiled a little. "I am afraid I cannot have hysterics to prove my sensibility. After all, people die every day."

"He did not strike you as an evil personality."

"I hardly noticed him."

"A crime -- it is all in the day's work to you, eh?"

"Oh, certainly."

"You were not acquainted with the dead man?"

"I saw him for the first time when lunching here yesterday."

"And how did he strike you?"

"You are very Anglo-Saxon. Mademoiselle. Vous n'éprouvez pas d'émotion."

"They die, yes. But murder is a little more rare."

She shrugged her shoulders slightly. "Really, I cannot say I thought about it."

Poirot looked at her keenly.

"I have not really thought about it from that point of view. No, I cannot say that I am at all distressed."

"Yes."

Miss Debenham did not reply. She raised her eyes and looked Poirot full in the face. The glance said plainly, "You are impertinent."

"And what do you think of the Armstrong affair?"

"You are travelling from Baghdad, I believe, Miss Debenham?"

"I see. I thought, perhaps, you might be going to be married."

"Baghdad is rather out of things. I think I should prefer a post in London if I can hear of a suitable one."

"I am not sure."

"What have you been doing in Baghdad?"

"What is your opinion of the lady who shares your compartment -- Miss Ohlsson?"

"I have been acting as governess to two children."

"Do you know who the man Ratchett really was, Mademoiselle?"

"Are you returning to your post after your holiday?"

"To London?"

"Yes."

"Why is that?"

Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.

"If you will forgive my saying so, it seems somewhat of a waste of time. Whether or not I liked Mr. Ratchett's face does not seem likely to be helpful in finding out who killed him."

She nodded. "Mrs. Hubbard has been telling everyone."

"It was quite abominable," said the girl crisply.

"Whose is it?"

"Yes, that is right."

"I told you just now. I don't know. I woke up this morning about five o'clock with the feeling that the train had been standing still for a long time. I opened the door and looked out into the corridor, thinking we might be at a station. I saw someone in a scarlet kimono some way down the corridor."

"You do not say, 'No, I have no such thing.' You say, 'That is not mine'-- meaning that such a thing does belong to someone else."

"Ah! I may mention without indiscretion, I hope, that I noticed the colour of your dressing gown on the way from Aleppo to Stamboul. A pale mauve, I believe."

She nodded.

The girl drew back a little, startled. "I don't know. What do you mean?"

"Somebody else on this train?"

"She seems a pleasant, simple creature."

"No, that is not mine."

"What colour is her dressing gown?"

Poirot leaned forward. He was like a cat pouncing on a mouse.

"Have you any other dressing gown, Mademoiselle? A scarlet dressing gown, for example?"

Mary Debenham stared. "A kind of brownish colour -- natural wool."

"Yes."

"Whose, then?"

"I can't say. She had on a shingle cap and I only saw the back of her head."

"Tallish and slim, I should judge, but it's difficult to say. The kimono was embroidered with dragons."

"And in build?"

"And you don't know who it was? Was she fair or dark or grey-haired?"

Then, looking up, he said: "I need not keep you further, Mademoiselle."

"Oh!" she seemed rather taken aback, but rose promptly. In the doorway, however, she hesitated a minute and then came back.

"The Swedish lady -- Miss Ohlsson, is it?-- seems rather worried. She says you told her she was the last person to see this man alive. She thinks, I believe, that you suspect her on that account. Can't I tell her that she has made a mistake? Really, you know, she is the kind of creature who wouldn't hurt a fly." She smiled a little as she spoke.

"Yes, yes that is right, dragons." He was silent a minute. He murmured to himself: "I cannot understand. I cannot understand. None of this makes sense."

"What time was it that she went to fetch the aspirin from Mrs. Hubbard?"

"About five minutes."

"She was away -- how long?"

"Just after half-past ten."

"Did she leave the compartment again during the night?"

"No."

"Thank you." She smiled suddenly at him, a smile that invited sympathy. "She's like a sheep, you know. She gets anxious and bleats."

The doctor shook his head.

Poirot turned to the doctor. "Could Ratchett have been killed as early as that?"

"Then I think you can reassure your friend, Mademoiselle."

She turned and went out.