should be he and not one of the official detectives who took the initiative.
“Mesdames and messieurs,” said Poirot, bowing as though he were a celebrity about to deliver a lecture, “I have asked you to come here all together, for a certain object. That object, it concerns Mr. Alfred Inglethorp.”
Inglethorp was sitting a little by himself—I think, unconsciously, every one had drawn his chair slightly away from him—and he gave a faint start as Poirot pronounced his name.
“Mr. Inglethorp,” said
Mr. Wells cleared his throat and remarked drily:
“Are you so sure it is a coincidence, Cavendish?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your mother, you tell me, had a violent quarrel with—some one yesterday afternoon–-”
“What do you mean?” cried John again. There was a tremor in his voice, and he had gone very pale.