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Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?"
"
He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day."
"Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten
world it is, though!"
"You find it so?" I asked.
"
Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard
men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box! Never know where they
won't turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the country--
damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in
at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's chamber of
horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?"
"Cheer up, John!" I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever."
"Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up
our heads again."
"No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject."
"
Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and
stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there's worse
than that."
"
What?"
John lowered his voice:
Have you ever thought, Hastings--it's a nightmare to me--who did it? I can't
"
help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because--because--
who could have done it? Now Inglethorp's out of the way, there's no one else;
no one, I mean, except--one of us."
Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely
it must be so, unless-----
A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. The light
increased. Poirot's mysterious doings, his hints--they all fitted in. Fool that I
was not to have thought of this possibility before, and what a relief for us
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