“By the way,” I said, “I’ve got a message for you from my sister. Ralph Paton’s

boots were black, not brown.”

 

I was watching him closely as I gave the message, and I fancied that I saw a

momentary flicker of discomposure. If so, it passed almost immediately.

 

“She is absolutely positive they are not brown?”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

“Ah!” said Poirot regretfully. “That is a pity.”

 

And he seemed quite crestfallen.

 

He entered into no explanations, but at once started a new subject of

conversation.

 

“The housekeeper, Miss Russell, who came to consult you on that Friday

morning—is it indiscreet to ask what passed at the interview—apart from the

medical details, I mean?”

 

“Not at all,” I said. “When the professional part of the conversation was over,

we talked for a few minutes about poisons, and the ease or difficulty of

detecting them, and about drug-taking and drug-takers.”