it is a big stake for which I play. No one but I, Hercule Poirot, would attempt it!” And he tapped himself proudly on the breast.
After pausing a few minutes respectfully, so as not to spoil his effect, I gave him Lawrence’s message.
“Aha!” he cried. “So he has found the extra coffee-cup. That is good. He has more intelligence than would appear, this long-faced Monsieur Lawrence of yours!”
I did not myself think very highly of Lawrence’s intelligence; but I forebore to contradict Poirot, and
“Mr. Inglethorp, as a mere matter of form, would you mind telling us where you were on the evening of Monday, July 16th?”
“Really—I can’t remember.”
“That is absurd, Mr. Inglethorp,” said the Coroner sharply. “Think again.”
Inglethorp shook his head.
“I cannot tell you. I have an idea that I was out walking.”