Poirot nodded thoughtfully, like a man whose mind is made up.
“Soit!” he said. “Then I must speak for you.”
Alfred Inglethorp sprang up again.
“You? How can you speak? You do not know–-” he broke off abruptly.
Poirot turned to face us. “Mesdames and messieurs! I speak! Listen! I, Hercule Poirot, affirm that the man who entered the chemist’s shop, and purchased strychnine at six o’clock on Monday last was not Mr. Inglethorp, for at six o’clock on that day Mr. Inglethorp was escorting Mrs. Raikes
a motor was audible, and we all turned to the window as it swept past.
“Evie!” cried John. “Excuse me, Wells.” He went hurriedly out into the hall.
Poirot looked inquiringly at me.
“Miss Howard,” I explained.
“Ah, I am glad she has come. There is a woman with a head and a heart too, Hastings. Though the good God gave her no beauty!”