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I looked at Poirot in silent amazement. The colossal cheek of the little man!
Who on earth but Poirot would have thought of a trial for murder as a
restorer of conjugal happiness!
"I perceive your thoughts, mon ami," said Poirot, smiling at me. "No one but
Hercule Poirot would have attempted such a thing! And you are wrong in
condemning it. The happiness of one man and one woman is the greatest
thing in all the world."
His words took me back to earlier events. I remembered Mary as she lay
white and exhausted on the sofa, listening, listening. There had come the
sound of the bell below. She had started up. Poirot had opened the door,
and meeting her agonized eyes had nodded gently. "Yes, madame," he said.
"I have brought him back to you." He had stood aside, and as I went out I
had seen the look in Mary's eyes, as John Cavendish had caught his wife in
his arms.
"Perhaps you are right, Poirot," I said gently. "Yes, it is the greatest thing in
the world."
Suddenly, there was a tap at the door, and Cynthia peeped in.
"I--I only----"
"Come in," I said, springing up.
She came in, but did not sit down.
"
I--only wanted to tell you something----"
Yes?"
"
Cynthia fidgeted with a little tassel for some moments, then, suddenly
exclaiming: "You dears!" kissed first me and then Poirot, and rushed out of
the room again.
"
What on earth does this mean?" I asked, surprised.
It was very nice to be kissed by Cynthia, but the publicity of the salute
rather impaired the pleasure.
"It means that she has discovered Monsieur Lawrence does not dislike her
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