“Do you mean that you could have saved John Cavendish from being brought to trial?”
“Yes, my friend. But I eventually decided in favour of ‘a woman’s happiness.’ Nothing but the great danger through which they have passed could have brought these two proud souls together again.”
I looked at Poirot in silent amazement. The colossal cheek of the little man! Who on earth but Poirot would have thought of a trial for murder as a restorer of conjugal happiness!
“I perceive your thoughts, mon ami ,” said Poirot, smiling at me. “No one but Hercule Poirot would have attempted such a thing! And you are wrong in condemning it. The happiness of one man and one woman is the greatest thing in all the world.”
His words took me back to earlier events. I remembered Mary as she lay white and exhausted on the sofa, listening, listening. There had come the sound of the bell below. She had started up. Poirot had opened the door, and meeting her agonized eyes had nodded gently. “Yes, madame,” he said. “I have brought him back to you.” He had stood aside, and as I went out I had seen the look in Mary’s eyes, as John Cavendish had caught his wife in his arms.
“Perhaps you are right, Poirot,” I said gently. “Yes, it is the greatest thing in the world.”
Suddenly, there was a tap at the door, and Cynthia peeped in.
“I—I only—”
“Come in,” I said, springing up.
She came in, but did not sit down.
“I—only wanted to tell you something—”