The Comte de la Roche
Van Aldin read the letter through in silence. His face turned a dull angry crimson. The men watching him saw the veins start out on his forehead, and his big hands clench themselves unconsciously. He handed back the letter without a word. M. Carrège was looking with close attention at his desk, M. Caux’s eyes were fixed upon the ceiling, and M. Hercule Poirot was tenderly brushing a speck of dust from his coat sleeve. With the greatest tact they none of them looked at Van Aldin.
It was M. Carrège, mindful of his status and his duties, who tackled the unpleasant subject.
“Perhaps, Monsieur,” he murmured, “you are aware by whom—er—this letter was written?”