“I told you so,” I began again, but Poirot interrupted me with a gesture of impatience.
“Ah! but it is that you are a little stupid tonight, my friend. You know that it is so—but how am I to know? Eh bien , I am able to tell you that the Mysterious Stranger was not a hallucination on your part, because the maid of a Miss Gannett met him a few minutes before you did, and of her too he inquired the way to Fernly Park. We accept his presence, therefore, and we can be fairly sure of two things about him—that he was a stranger to the neighborhood, and that whatever his object in going to Fernly, there was no great secrecy about it, since he twice asked the way there.”
“Yes,” I said, “I see that.”
“Now I have made it my business to find out more about this man. He had a drink at the Three Boars, I learn, and the barmaid there says that he spoke with an American accent and mentioned having just come over from the States. Did it strike you that he had an American accent?”
“Yes, I think he had,” I said, after a minute or two, during which I cast my mind back, “but a very slight one.”
“ Précisément. There is also this which, you will remember, I picked up in the summerhouse?”
He held out to me the little quill. I looked at it curiously. Then a memory of something I had read stirred in me.
Poirot, who had been watching my face, nodded. “Yes, heroin ‘snow.’ Drug-takers carry it like this, and sniff it up the nose.”
“Diamorphine hydrochloride,” I murmured mechanically.
“This method of taking the drug is very common on the other side. Another proof, if we wanted one, that the man came from Canada or the