“But it isn’t. I’ve had enough of the fellow hanging about. He’s a Polish Jew, anyway.”
“A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavens the”—she looked at him—“stolid stupidity of the ordinary Englishman.”
Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that the blood rose to John’s face in a crimson tide.
“Mary!”
“Well?” Her tone did not change.
The pleading died out of his voice.
“Am I to understand that you will continue to see Bauerstein against my express wishes?”
“If I choose.”
village about old Mrs. Inglethorp dying so suddenly. They do say—” he lowered his voice cautiously—“that it’s poison?”
Poirot’s face remained quite impassive.
“Only the doctors can tell us that, Mr. Mace.”
“Yes, exactly—of course–-” The young man hesitated, and then his agitation was too much for