“I’ve been every kind of a fool,” said Blunt abruptly. “Rum conversation we’ve been having. Like one of those Danish plays. But you’re a sound fellow, M. Poirot. Thank you.”
He took Poirot’s hand and gave it a grip which caused the other to wince in anguish. Then he strode to the side-door and passed out into the garden.
“Not every kind of a fool,” murmured Poirot, tenderly nursing the injured member. “Only one kind—the fool in love.”