“Have you ever thought, Hastings—it’s a nightmare to me—who did it? I can’t help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because—because—who could have done it? Now Inglethorp’s out of the way, there’s no one else; no one, I mean, except—one of us.”

Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be so, unless–—

A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. The light increased. Poirot’s mysterious doings, his hints—they all fitted

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