of the fingers. With precision of the fingers goes precision of the brain. And never have I needed that more than now!”
“What is the trouble?” I asked.
With a great thump on the table, Poirot demolished his carefully built up edifice.
“It is this, mon ami! That I can build card houses seven stories high, but I cannot”—thump—“find”—thump—“that last link of which I spoke to you.”
I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my peace, and he began slowly building up the cards again, speaking in jerks as he did so.
Inglethorp was sitting a little by himself—I think, unconsciously, every one had drawn his chair slightly away from him—and he gave a faint start as Poirot pronounced his name.
“Mr. Inglethorp,” said Poirot, addressing him directly, “a very dark shadow is resting on this house—the shadow of murder.”