“Of course he didn’t do it,” said Caroline, who had been keeping silent with

great difficulty. “Ralph may be extravagant, but he’s a dear boy, and has the

nicest manners.”

 

I wanted to tell Caroline that large numbers of murderers have had nice manners,

but the presence of Flora restrained me. Since the girl was determined, I was

forced to give in to her and we started at once, getting away before my sister

was able to fire off any more pronouncements beginning with her favorite words,

“Of course.”

 

An old woman with an immense Breton cap opened the door of The Larches to us. M.

Poirot was at home, it seemed.

 

We were ushered into a little sitting-room arranged with formal precision, and

there, after the lapse of a minute or so, my friend of yesterday came to us.

 

“Monsieur le docteur,” he said, smiling. “Mademoiselle.”

 

He bowed to Flora.

 

“Perhaps,” I began, “you have heard of the tragedy which occurred last night.”

 

His face grew grave.