“_C’est dommage_,” he said, and went out.

 

CHAPTER XIII

 

THE GOOSE QUILL

 

That evening, at Poirot’s request, I went over to his house after dinner.

Caroline saw me depart with visible reluctance. I think she would have liked to

have accompanied me.

 

Poirot greeted me hospitably. He had placed a bottle of Irish whisky (which I

detest) on a small table, with a soda water siphon and a glass. He himself was

engaged in brewing hot chocolate. It was a favorite beverage of his, I

discovered later.

 

He inquired politely after my sister, whom he declared to be a most interesting

woman.

 

“I’m afraid you’ve been giving her a swelled head,” I said dryly. “What about

Sunday afternoon?”

 

He laughed and twinkled.

 

“I always like to employ the expert,” he remarked obscurely, but he refused to

explain the remark.