“Oh, yes, mon ami , I would do what I say.” He got up and laid his hand on my shoulder. His physiognomy underwent a complete change. Tears came into his eyes. “In all this, you see, I think of that poor Mrs. Inglethorp who is dead. She was not extravagantly loved⁠—no. But she was very good to us Belgians⁠—I owe her a debt.”

I endeavoured to interrupt, but Poirot swept on.

“Let me tell you this, Hastings. She would never forgive me if I let Alfred Inglethorp, her husband, be arrested now⁠—when a word from me could save him!”