him from his mind. I could have told him from the beginning that this obsession of his over the coffee was bound to end in a blind alley, but I restrained my tongue. After all, though he was old, Poirot had been a great man in his day.
“Breakfast is ready,” said John Cavendish, coming in from the hall. “You will breakfast with us, Monsieur Poirot?”
Poirot acquiesced. I observed John. Already he was almost restored to his normal self. The shock of the events of the last night had upset him temporarily,
how are you going to decide what is important, and what isn’t? That always seems the difficulty to me.”
Poirot shook his head energetically. He was now arranging his moustache with exquisite care.
“Not so. Voyons! One fact leads to another—so we continue. Does the next fit in with that? A merveille!