“My dear Poirot!” I cried. “What is the matter? Have you suddenly gone mad?”

“Regard, I pray you, this mutton. But regard it closely!”

I regarded it as closely as I could, but could see nothing unusual about it. It seemed to me a very ordinary leg of mutton. I said as much. Poirot threw me a withering glance.

“But do you not see this⁠—and this⁠—and this⁠—”

He illustrated each “this” with a jab at the unoffending joint, dislodging small icicles as he did so.

Poirot had just accused me of being imaginative, but I now felt that he was far more wildly so than I had ever been. Did he seriously think these slivers of ice were crystals of a deadly poison? That was the only construction I could put upon his extraordinary agitation.

“It’s frozen meat,” I explained gently. “Imported, you know. New Zealand.”