“D’you really think⁠—” he began, and stopped.

He is one of those inarticulate men who find it hard to put things into words.

Poirot knows no such disability.

“If you doubt me, ask her yourself, monsieur. But perhaps you no longer care to⁠—the affair of the money⁠—”

Blunt gave a sound like an angry laugh. “Think I’d hold that against her? Roger was always a queer chap about money. She got in a mess and didn’t dare tell him. Poor kid. Poor lonely kid.”

Poirot looked thoughtfully at the side door. “Mademoiselle Flora went into the garden, I think,” he murmured.

“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.”