I did not answer him, merely shook my head. I felt that I had no right to burden Poirot with this, my purely personal problem. It was not as though he could help in any way. Judith would have treated any remonstrances on his part with the smiling detachment of the young towards the boring counsels of the old. Judith, my Judith . . . It is hard now to describe just what I went through that day. Afterwards, thinking it over, I am inclined to put something down to the atmosphere of Styles itself. Evil imaginings came easily to the mind there. There was, too, not only the past, but a sinister present. The shadow of murder and a murderer haunted the house. And to the best of my belief the murderer was Allerton and Judith was losing her heart to him! It was unbelievable – monstrous – and I didn’t know what to do. It was after lunch that Boyd Carrington drew me aside. He hemmed and hawed a bit before coming to the point. At last he said rather jerkily: ‘Don’t think I’m interfering, but I think you ought to speak to that girl of yours.
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