“How are you, doctor? M. Poirot, this is the second time I’ve been here this morning. I was anxious to catch you.”

“Perhaps I’d better be off,” I suggested rather awkwardly.

“Not on my account, doctor. No, it’s just this,” he went on, seating himself at a wave of invitation from Poirot, “I’ve got a confession to make.”

“ En verité? ” said Poirot, with an air of polite interest.

“Oh, it’s of no consequence, really. But, as a matter of fact, my conscience has been pricking me ever since yesterday afternoon. You accused us all of keeping back something, M. Poirot. I plead guilty. I’ve had something up my sleeve.”