“What can it be?” I mused, won over to Poirot’s views for the moment, although still retaining a faint conviction that the obvious deduction was the correct one.
“Can you not guess?” asked Poirot, smiling.
“No, can you?”
“Oh, yes, I had a little idea sometime ago—and it has turned out to be correct.”
“You never told me,” I said reproachfully.
Poirot spread out his hands apologetically.
“Pardon me, mon ami, you were not precisely sympathique.” He turned to me earnestly. “Tell me—you see now that he must not be arrested?”
John Cavendish had turned to Poirot.
“Will you come with us, Monsieur Poirot? We are going through my mother’s papers. Mr. Inglethorp is quite willing to leave it entirely to Mr. Wells and myself.”
“Which simplifies matters very much,” murmured the lawyer. “As technically, of course, he was entitled–-” He did not finish the sentence.