“Have you ever thought, Hastings⁠—it’s a nightmare to me⁠—who did it? I can’t help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because⁠—because⁠—who could have done it? Now Inglethorp’s out of the way, there’s no one else; no one, I mean, except⁠—one of us.”

Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be so, unless⁠—

A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. The light increased. Poirot’s mysterious doings, his hints⁠—they all fitted in. Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, and what a relief for us all.

“No, John,” I said, “it isn’t one of us. How could it be?”

“I know, but, still, who else is there?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“No.”