“Ah, it is magnificent!” he cried. “It can be seen⁠—Madame has a temperament.”

“I am an artist,” said Mirelle; “every artist has a temperament. I told Dereek to beware, and he would not listen.” She whirled round on Poirot suddenly. “It is true, is it not, that he wants to marry that English miss?”

Poirot coughed.

“ On m’a dit ,” he murmured, “that he adores her passionately.”

Mirelle came towards them.

“He murdered his wife,” she screamed. “There⁠—now you have it! He told me beforehand that he meant to do it. He had got to an impasse⁠—zut! he took the easiest way out.”

“You say that M. Kettering murdered his wife.”