used in evidence against you,” actually hovering on Summerhaye’s lips. Poirot went on.
“Do you understand now, monsieur?”
“No; What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Poirot deliberately, “that you are suspected of poisoning your wife.”
A little gasp ran round the circle at this plain speaking.
“Good heavens!” cried Inglethorp, starting up. “What a monstrous idea! I—poison my dearest Emily!”
“I do not think”—Poirot watched him narrowly—“that you quite realize the unfavourable nature of your evidence
secret with her to her grave. Cavendish, I much fear there is no coincidence there. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that the facts are very suggestive.”
“Suggestive, or not,” interrupted John, “we are most grateful to Monsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we should never