Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
64
The straight brows came together. Princess Dragomiroff drew herself a little more erect. 
“In my view, then, this murder is an entirely admirable happening! You will pardon my 
slightly biased point of view.” 
“It is most natural, Madame. And now to return to the question you did not answer. Where is 
the younger daughter of Linda Arden, the sister of Mrs. Armstrong?” 
“I honestly cannot tell you, Monsieur. I have lost touch with the younger generation. I believe 
she married an Englishman some years ago and went to England, but at the moment I cannot 
recollect the name.” 
She paused a minute and then said: 
“Is there anything further you want to ask me, gentlemen?” 
“Only one thing, Madame, a somewhat personal question. The colour of your dressing-
gown.” 
She raised her eyebrows slightly. “I must suppose you have a reason for such a question. My 
dressing-gown is of black satin.” 
“There is nothing more, Madame. I am much obliged to you for answering my questions so 
promptly.” 
She made a slight gesture with her heavily beringed hand. Then as she rose, and the others 
rose with her, she stopped. 
“You will excuse me, Monsieur,” she said, “but may I ask your name? Your face is somehow 
familiar to me.” 
“My name, Madame, is Hercule Poirot—at your service.” 
She was silent a minute, then: “Hercule Poirot,” she said. “Yes. I remember now. This is 
Destiny.” 
She walked away, very erect, a little stiff in her movements. 
“
Voilà une grande dame
,” said M. Bouc. “What do you think of her, my friend?” 
But Hercule Poirot merely shook his head. 
“I am wondering,” he said, “what she meant by Destiny.” 

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