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"
Ah, mon ami, things are going badly, badly."
In spite of myself, my heart gave a leap of relief. Evidently there was a
likelihood of John Cavendish being acquitted.
When we reached the house, my little friend waved aside Mary's offer of tea.
"No, I thank you, madame. I will mount to my room."
I followed him. Still frowning, he went across to the desk and took out a
small pack of patience cards. Then he drew up a chair to the table, and, to
my utter amazement, began solemnly to build card houses!
My jaw dropped involuntarily, and he said at once:
"No, mon ami, I am not in my second childhood! I steady my nerves, that is
all. This employment requires precision of the fingers. With precision of the
fingers goes precision of the brain. And never have I needed that more than
now!"
"
What is the trouble?" I asked.
With a great thump on the table, Poirot demolished his carefully built up
edifice.
"
It is this, mon ami! That I can build card houses seven stories high, but I
cannot"--thump--"find"--thump--"that last link of which I spoke to you."
I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my peace, and he began slowly
building up the cards again, speaking in jerks as he did so.
"
It is done--so! By placing--one card--on another--with mathematical--
precision!"
I watched the card house rising under his hands, story by story. He never
hesitated or faltered. It was really almost like a conjuring trick.
"
What a steady hand you've got," I remarked. "I believe I've only seen your
hand shake once."
"
On an occasion when I was enraged, without doubt," observed Poirot, with
great placidity.
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