of water on his coat sleeve. The man reminded me in some ways of a cat. His

green eyes and his finicking habits.

 

“And all for nothing, too,” I said sympathetically. “I wonder what it was in the

pond?”

 

“Would you like to see?” asked Poirot.

 

I stared at him. He nodded.

 

“My good friend,” he said gently and reproachfully, “Hercule Poirot does not run

the risk of disarranging his costume without being sure of attaining his object.

To do so would be ridiculous and absurd. I am never ridiculous.”

 

“But you brought your hand out empty,” I objected.

 

“There are times when it is necessary to have discretion. Do you tell your

patients everything—everything, doctor? I think not. Nor do you tell your

excellent sister everything either, is it not so? Before showing my empty hand,

I dropped what it contained into my other hand.

 

You shall see what that was.”

 

He held out his left hand, palm open. On it lay a little circlet of gold. A

woman’s wedding ring.