But at that moment it came to me⁠—the resemblance that had haunted me all along, something familiar in the defiance of Charles Kent’s manner. The two voices, one rough and coarse, the other painfully ladylike⁠—were strangely the same in timbre. It was of Miss Russell that I had been reminded that night outside the gates of Fernly Park.

I looked at Poirot, full of my discovery, and he gave me an imperceptible nod.

In answer to Miss Russell’s question, he threw out his hands in a thoroughly French gesture.

“I thought you might be interested, that is all,” he said mildly.

“Well I’m not particularly,” said Miss Russell. “Who is this Charles Kent anyway?”

“He is a man, mademoiselle, who was at Fernly on the night of the murder.”

“Really?”