“ M. Poirot,” she said, in a low mocking tone. “The great, the wonderful, the unique, M. Poirot. I sent a warning to you yesterday morning. You chose to disregard it⁠—you thought you could pit your wits against us . And now, you are here!”

There was a cold malignity about her that froze me to the marrow. It was so at variance with the burning fire of her eyes. She was mad⁠—mad⁠—with the madness of genius!

Poirot said nothing. His jaw had dropped, and he was staring at her.

“Well,” she said softly, “this is the end. We cannot permit our plans to be interfered with. Have you any last request to make?”