“True,” said Poirot⁠—“by the Rapide. I do not know where he broke his journey. Perhaps you do not know that. What I do know is that he arrived here on Wednesday morning, and not on Tuesday morning.”

“Monsieur is mistaken,” said Marie stolidly.

Poirot rose to his feet.

“Then the law must take its course,” he murmured. “A pity.”

“What do you mean, Monsieur?” asked Marie, with a shade of uneasiness.

“You will be arrested and held as accomplices concerned in the murder of Mrs. Kettering, the English lady who was killed.”

“Murder!”