"Odd," said Poirot, "how one remembers some things—and forgets others."
He leant forward and struck the table a blow with his fist; his eyes flashed with anger.
"Yes, yes, it is as I say. You tell your lies and you think nobody knows. But there are two people who know. Yes—two people. One is le bon Dieu"
He raised a hand to heaven, and then settling himself back in his chair and shutting his eyelids, he murmured comfortably:
"And the other is Hercule Poirot."
"I assure you, Monsieur, you are completely mistaken. Monsieur le Comte left Paris on Monday night"
"True," said Poirot—"by the Rapide. I do not know where he broke his journey. Perhaps you do not know that. What I do know is that he arrived here on Wednesday morning, and not on Tuesday morning."
"Monsieur is mistaken," said Marie stolidly.
Poirot rose to his feet.
"Then the law must take its course," he murmured. "A pity."
"What do you mean, Monsieur?" asked Marie, with a shade of uneasiness.
"You will be arrested and held as accomplices concerned in the murder of Mrs. Kettering, the English lady who was killed."
"Murder!"
The man's face had gone chalk white, his knees knocked together. Marie dropped the rolling-pin and began to weep.
"But it is impossible—impossible. I thought"
