"Alfred Inglethorp?"

"Him, or another."

"No question of another. Poor Emily was never murdered until _he_
came along. I don't say she wasn't surrounded by sharks--she
was. But it was only her purse they were after. Her life was
safe enough. But along comes Mr. Alfred Inglethorp--and within
two months--hey presto!"

"Believe me, Miss Howard," said Poirot very earnestly, "if Mr.
Inglethorp is the man, he shall not escape me. On my honour, I
will hang him as high as Haman!"

"That's better," said Miss Howard more enthusiastically.

"But I must ask you to trust me. Now your help may be very
valuable to me. I will tell you why. Because, in all this house
of mourning, yours are the only eyes that have wept."

Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into the gruffness of
her voice.

"If you mean that I was fond of her--yes, I was. You know, Emily
was a selfish old woman in her way. She was very generous, but
she always wanted a return. She never let people forget what she
had done for them--and, that way she missed love. Don't think
she ever realized it, though, or felt the lack of it. Hope not,
anyway. I was on a different footing. I took my stand from the
first. 'So many pounds a year I'm worth to you. Well and good.