“Damn my liver,” I said irritably. “Did you talk about the murder at all?”
“Well, naturally, James. What else is there to talk about locally? I was able to set M. Poirot straight upon several points. He was very grateful to me. He said I had the makings of a born detective in me—and a wonderful psychological insight into human nature.”
Caroline was exactly like a cat that is full to overflowing with rich cream. She was positively purring.
“He talked a lot about the little grey cells of the brain, and of their functions. His own, he says, are of the first quality.”
“He would say so,” I remarked bitterly. “Modesty is certainly not his middle name.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so horribly American, James. He thought it very important that Ralph should be found as soon as possible, and induced to come forward and give an account of himself. He says that his disappearance will produce a very unfortunate impression at the inquest.”
“And what did you say to that?”
“I agreed with him,” said Caroline importantly. “And I was able to tell him the way people were talking already about it.”
“Caroline,” I said sharply, “did you tell M. Poirot what you overheard in the wood that day?”
“I did,” said Caroline complacently.
I got up and began to walk about. “You realize what you’re doing, I hope,” I jerked out. “You’re putting a halter round Ralph Paton’s neck as surely as you’re sitting in that chair.”