“And all for nothing, too,” I said sympathetically. “I wonder what it was in the pond?”
“Would you like to see?” asked Poirot.
I stared at him. He nodded.
“My good friend,” he said gently and reproachfully, “Hercule Poirot does not run the risk of disarranging his costume without being sure of attaining his object. To do so would be ridiculous and absurd. I am never ridiculous.”
“But you brought your hand out empty,” I objected.
“There are times when it is necessary to have discretion. Do you tell your patients everything—everything, doctor? I think not. Nor do you tell your excellent sister everything either, is it not so? Before showing my empty hand, I dropped what it contained into my other hand. You shall see what that was.”
He held out his left hand, palm open. On it lay a little circlet of gold. A woman’s wedding ring.
I took it from him.
“Look inside,” commanded Poirot.
I did so. Inside was an inscription in fine writing:—
From R. , March 13th.
I looked at Poirot, but he was busy inspecting his appearance in a tiny pocket glass. He paid particular attention to his moustaches, and none at all to me. I saw that he did not intend to be communicative.