of Inglethorp’s with Mrs. Raikes than we thought, to make him hold his tongue so persistently. What are you going to do now? Where are the Scotland Yard fellows?”
“Gone down to interview the servants. I showed them all our exhibits. I am disappointed in Japp. He has no method!”
“Hullo!” I said, looking out of the window. “Here’s Dr. Bauerstein. I believe you’re right about that man, Poirot. I don’t like him.”
“He is clever,” observed Poirot meditatively.
“Oh, clever as the devil! I must say
sense, he won’t stay here tamely and wait to be hanged.”
John Cavendish looked at her helplessly.
“I know what it is,” she accused him, “you’ve been listening to the doctors. Never should. What do they know? Nothing at all—or just enough to make them dangerous. I ought to know—my own father was a