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"Yes indeed! You were in a towering rage. Do you remember? It was when
you discovered that the lock of the despatch-case in Mrs. Inglethorp's
bedroom had been forced. You stood by the mantel-piece, twiddling the
things on it in your usual fashion, and your hand shook like a leaf! I must
say----"
But I stopped suddenly. For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate cry,
again annihilated his masterpiece of cards, and putting his hands over his
eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the keenest
agony.
"
"
"
"
Good heavens, Poirot!" I cried. "What is the matter? Are you taken ill?"
No, no," he gasped. "It is--it is--that I have an idea!"
Oh!" I exclaimed, much relieved. "One of your 'little ideas'?"
Ah, ma foi, no!" replied Poirot frankly. "This time it is an idea gigantic!
Stupendous! And you--you, my friend, have given it to me!"
Suddenly clasping me in his arms, he kissed me warmly on both cheeks,
and before I had recovered from my surprise ran headlong from the room.
Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.
"
What is the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out: 'A
garage! For the love of Heaven, direct me to a garage, madame!' And, before I
could answer, he had dashed out into the street."
I hurried to the window. True enough, there he was, tearing down the street,
hatless, and gesticulating as he went. I turned to Mary with a gesture of
despair.
"He'll be stopped by a policeman in another minute. There he goes, round
the corner!"
Our eyes met, and we stared helplessly at one another.
"
What can be the matter?"
I shook my head.
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