“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—”