There was no delay or hesitation about her answer. It came swift and pat.

‘Why, of course. I want to get married again. What other reason could there be?’

Her great blue eyes opened ingenuously.

‘But surely a divorce should be easy to obtain?’

‘You don’t know my husband, M. Poirot. He’s-he’s-’ She shivered. ‘I don’t know how to explain it. He’s a queer man-he’s not like other people.’ 

She paused and then went on.

‘He should never have married-anyone. I know what I’m talking about. I just can’t describe him, but he’s-queer. His first wife, you know, ran away from him. Left a baby of three months behind. He never divorced her and she died miserably abroad somewhere. Then he married me. Well-I couldn’t stick it. I was frightened. I left him and went to the States. I’ve no grounds for a divorce, and if I’ve given him grounds for one, he won’t take notice of them. He’s-he’s a kind of fanatic.’

‘In certain American states you could obtain a divorce, Madame.’

‘That’s no good to me-not if I’m going to live in England.’

‘You want to live in England?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who is the man you want to marry?’

‘That’s just it. The Duke of Merton.’

I drew in my breath sharply. The Duke of Merton had so far been the despair of matchmaking mammas. A young man of monkish tendencies, a violent Anglo-Catholic, he was reported to be completely under the thumb of his mother, the redoubtable dowager duchess. His life was austere in the extreme. He collected Chinese porcelain and was reputed to be of aesthetic tastes. He was supposed to care nothing for women. 

‘I’m just crazy about him,’ said Jane sentimentally. ‘He’s unlike anyone I ever met, and Merton Castle is too wonderful. The whole thing is the most romantic business that ever happened. He’s so good-looking too-like a dreamy kind of monk.’