“He was not at liberty to speak,” said Caroline importantly.

 

I wondered how far Poirot had strained the truth in talking to Caroline—probably

not at all. He had conveyed his innuendoes by means of his eyebrows and his

shoulders.

 

“And after all this,” I remarked, “I suppose you were ready to eat out of his

hand.”

 

“Don’t be coarse, James. I don’t know where you get these vulgar expressions

from.”

 

“Probably from my only link with the outside world—my patients.

 

Unfortunately my practice does not lie amongst Royal princes and interesting

Russian émigrés.”

 

Caroline pushed her spectacles up and looked at me.

 

“You seem very grumpy, James. It must be your liver. A blue pill, I think,

to-night.”

 

To see me in my own home, you would never imagine that I was a doctor of

medicine. Caroline does the home prescribing both for herself and me.