"I know what you are going to say," said Derek rapidly, "the kind of life I have led, the fact that I am not worthy of her. You will say that I have no right to think even of such a thing. You will say that it is not a case of giving a dog a bad name—I know that it is not decent to be speaking like this with my wife dead only a few days, and murdered at that."
He paused for breath, and Poirot took advantage of the pause to remark in his plaintive tone.
"But, indeed, I have not said anything at all."
"But you will."
"Eh?" said Poirot.
"You will say that I have no earthly chance of marrying Katherine."
"No," said Poirot, "I would not say that. Your reputation is bad, yes, but with women—never does that deter them. If you were a man of excellent character, of strict morality who had done nothing that he should not do, and—possibly everything that he should do— eh bien! then I should have grave doubts of your success. Moral worth, you understand, it is not romantic. It is appreciated, however, by widows."
Derek Kettering stared at him, then he swung round on his heel and went up to the waiting car.
Poirot looked after him with some interest. He saw the lovely vision lean out of the car and speak.
Derek Kettering did not stop. He lifted his hat and passed straight on.
"Ça y est," said M. Hercule Poirot, "it is time, I think, that I return chez moi."
He found the imperturbable George pressing trousers.
