“Permit me to say that you have been badly educated. It is the name of one of the great ones of this world.”
He sighed and folded his hands across his chest.
Hipolyte and Marie were staring at him uneasily. They were at a loss what to make of this unexpected and extremely strange visitor. “Monsieur desires—” murmured Hipolyte mechanically.
“I desire to know why you have lied to the police.”
“Monsieur!” cried Hipolyte; “I—lied to the police? Never have I done such a thing.”
M. Poirot shook his head.
“You are wrong,” he said; “you have done it on several occasions. Let me see.” He took a small notebook from his pocket and consulted it. “Ah, yes; on seven occasions at least. I will recite them to you.”
In a gentle unemotional voice he proceeded to outline the seven occasions.
Hipolyte was taken aback.
“But it is not of these past lapses that I wish to speak,” continued Poirot, “only, my dear friend, do not get into the habit of thinking yourself too clever. I come now to the particular lie in which I am concerned—your statement that the Comte de la Roche arrived at this villa on the morning of fourteenth January.”
“But that was no lie, Monsieur; that was the truth. Monsieur le Comte arrived here on the morning of Tuesday, the fourteenth. That is so, Marie, is it not?”
Marie assented eagerly.