a man is guilty, it is quite another matter to prove him so. And, in this case, there is terribly little evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, Hercule Poirot, know, but I lack the last link in my chain. And unless I can find that missing link—” He shook his head gravely.
“When did you first suspect John Cavendish?” I asked, after a minute or two.
“Did you not suspect him at all?”
“No, indeed.”
“Not after that fragment of conversation you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law,
that there was a smart doctor on the spot, who gave us the tip through the Coroner. But you’ve been on the spot from the first, and you may have picked up some little hints. From the evidence at the inquest, Mr. Inglethorp murdered his wife as sure as I stand here, and if anyone but you hinted the contrary