“You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon.”

“Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only.”

John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so.

“You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?”

“Yes. I met him.”

John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot’s feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly.

“It’s jolly difficult to know how to treat him.”

“That difficulty will not exist long,” pronounced Poirot quietly.