about her?” I asked.

 

“Eh? What do you say—fishy?”

 

I explained to the best of my ability.

 

“And they say that, do they?”

 

“Didn’t my sister convey as much to you yesterday afternoon?”

 

“_C’est possible._”

 

“For no reason whatever,” I declared.

 

“_Les femmes_,” generalized Poirot. “They are marvelous! They invent

haphazard—and by miracle they are right. Not that it is that, really.

 

Women observe subconsciously a thousand little details, without knowing that

they are doing so. Their subconscious mind adds these little things together—and

they call the result intuition. Me, I am very skilled in psychology. I know

these things.”

 

He swelled his chest out importantly, looking so ridiculous, that I found it

difficult not to burst out laughing. Then he took a small sip of his chocolate,

and carefully wiped his mustache.