“No, you are right,” he said, “it is not as though there was a blood tie. She has been kind and generous to these Cavendishes, but she was not their own mother. Blood tells—always remember that—blood tells.”
“Poirot,” I said, “I wish you would tell me why you wanted to know if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turning it over in my mind, but I can’t see how it has anything to do with the matter?”
He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finally he said:
“I do
I thought of Mrs. Raikes’s gipsy face, and Evelyn Howard’s warnings, but wisely decided to hold my peace, whilst Cynthia exhausted every possible hypothesis, and cheerfully hoped, “Aunt Emily will send him away, and will never speak to him again.”
I was anxious to get hold of John, but he was nowhere