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Chapter VII. Poirot Pays His Debts

           Poirotpolitelysetchairsforeveryone.TheScotlandYardmenwerethecynosureofalleyes.Ithinkthatforthefirsttimewerealizedthatthethingwasnotabaddream,butatangiblereality.Wehadreadofsuchthings—nowweourselveswereactorsinthedrama.To-morrowthedailypapers,alloverEngland,wouldblazonoutthenewsinstaringheadlines:

           “MYSTERIOUSTRAGEDYINESSEX”

           “WEALTHYLADYPOISONED”

           TherewouldbepicturesofStyles,snap-shotsof“ThefamilyleavingtheInquest”—thevillagephotographerhadnotbeenidle!Allthethingsthatonehadreadahundredtimes—thingsthathappentootherpeople,nottooneself.Andnow,inthishouse,amurderhadbeencommitted.Infrontofuswere“thedetectivesinchargeofthecase.”Thewell-knownglibphraseologypassedrapidlythroughmymindintheintervalbeforePoirotopenedtheproceedings.

           Ithinkeveryonewasalittlesurprisedthatitshouldbeheandnotoneoftheofficialdetectiveswhotooktheinitiative.

           “Mesdamesandmessieurs,”saidPoirot,bowingasthoughhewereacelebrityabouttodeliveralecture,“Ihaveaskedyoutocomeherealltogether,foracertainobject.Thatobject,itconcernsMr.AlfredInglethorp.”

           Inglethorpwassittingalittlebyhimself—Ithink,unconsciously,everyonehaddrawnhischairslightlyawayfromhim—andhegaveafaintstartasPoirotpronouncedhisname.

           “Mr.Inglethorp,”saidPoirot,addressinghimdirectly,“averydarkshadowisrestingonthishouse—theshadowofmurder.”

           Inglethorpshookhisheadsadly.

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