“You know,” I said, throwing down the pincers I was holding, “it’s extraordinarily intriguing, the whole thing. Every new development that arises is like the shake you give to a kaleidoscope⁠—the thing changes entirely in aspect. Now, why are you so anxious to see Miss Russell?”

Poirot raised his eyebrows. “Surely it is obvious?” he murmured.

“There you go again,” I grumbled. “According to you everything is obvious. But you leave me walking about in a fog.”

Poirot shook his head genially to me. “You mock yourself at me. Take the matter of Mademoiselle Flora. The inspector was surprised⁠—but you⁠—you were not.”

“I never dreamed of her being the thief,” I expostulated.

“That⁠—perhaps no. But I was watching your face and you were not⁠—like Inspector Raglan⁠—startled and incredulous.”