“It is done—so! By placing—one card—on another—with mathematical—precision!”
I watched the card house rising under his hands, story by story. He never hesitated or faltered. It was really almost like a conjuring trick.
“What a steady hand you’ve got,” I remarked. “I believe I’ve only seen your hand shake once.”
“On an occasion when I was enraged, without doubt,” observed Poirot, with great placidity.
“Yes indeed! You were in a towering rage. Do you remember? It was when you discovered that
Inglethorp shook his head sadly.
“My poor wife,” he murmured. “Poor Emily! It is terrible.”
“I do not think, monsieur,” said Poirot pointedly, “that you quite realize how terrible it may be—for you.” And as Inglethorp did not appear to understand, he added: “Mr. Inglethorp, you are standing in very grave danger.”