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Chapter VII. Poirot Pays His Debts
“Canyounotguess?”askedPoirot,smiling.
“No,canyou?”
“Oh,yes,Ihadalittleideasometimeago—andithasturnedouttobecorrect.”
“Younevertoldme,”Isaidreproachfully.
Poirotspreadouthishandsapologetically.
“Pardonme,monami,youwerenotpreciselysympathique.”Heturnedtomeearnestly.“Tellme—youseenowthathemustnotbearrested?”
“Perhaps,”Isaiddoubtfully,forIwasreallyquiteindifferenttothefateofAlfredInglethorp,andthoughtthatagoodfrightwoulddohimnoharm.
Poirot,whowaswatchingmeintently,gaveasigh.
“Come,myfriend,”hesaid,changingthesubject,“apartfromMr.Inglethorp,howdidtheevidenceattheinqueststrikeyou?”
“Oh,prettymuchwhatIexpected.”
“Didnothingstrikeyouaspeculiaraboutit?”
MythoughtsflewtoMaryCavendish,andIhedged:
“Inwhatway?”
“Well,Mr.LawrenceCavendish’sevidenceforinstance?”
Iwasrelieved.
“Oh,Lawrence!No,Idon’tthinkso.He’salwaysanervouschap.”
“Hissuggestionthathismothermighthavebeenpoisonedaccidentallybymeansofthetonicshewastaking,thatdidnotstrikeyouasstrange—hein?”
“No,Ican’tsayitdid.Thedoctorsridiculeditofcourse.Butitwasquiteanaturalsuggestionforalaymantomake.”
“ButMonsieurLawrenceisnotalayman.Youtoldmeyourselfthathehadstartedbystudyingmedicine,andthathehadtakenhisdegree.”
“Yes,that’strue.Ineverthoughtofthat.”Iwasratherstartled.“Itisodd.
