夜雨聆风strolled down to join him and as I got there Mrs Franklin came out ofthe laboratory.
She was most becomingly dressed and looked remarkably cheerful. Sheexplained that she was driving over with Boyd Carrington to see the houseand give expert advice in choosing cretonnes.
‘I left my handbag in the lab yesterday when I was talking to John,’ sheexplained. ‘Poor John, he and Judith have driven into Tadcaster – theywere short of some chemical reagent or other.’
She sank down on a seat near Poirot and shook her head with a comicalexpression. ‘Poor dears – I’m so glad I haven’t got the scientific mind. On alovely day like this it all seems so puerile.’
‘You must not let scientists hear you say that, madame.’
‘No, of course not.’ Her face changed. It grew serious. She said quietly:
‘You mustn’t think, M. Poirot, that I don’t admire my husband. I do. I thinkthe way he just lives for his work is really – tremendous.’
There was a little tremor in her voice.
A suspicion crossed my mind that Mrs Franklin rather liked playing dif-ferent roles. At this moment she was being the loyal and hero-worship-ping wife.
She leaned forward, placing an earnest hand on Poirot’s knee. ‘John,’
she said, ‘is really a – a kind of saint. It makes me quite frightened some-times.’
To call Franklin a saint was somewhat overstating the case, I thought,but Barbara Franklin went on, her eyes shining.
