“With special reference to cocaine?” asked Poirot.

 

“How did you know?” I asked, somewhat surprised.

 

For answer, the little man rose and crossed the room to where newspapers were

filed. He brought me a copy of the _Daily Budget_, dated Friday, 16th September,

and showed me an article dealing with the smuggling of cocaine. It was a

somewhat lurid article, written with an eye to picturesque effect.

 

“That is what put cocaine into her head, my friend,” he said.

 

I would have catechized him further, for I did not quite understand his meaning,

but at that moment the door opened and Geoffrey Raymond was announced.

 

He came in fresh and debonair as ever, and greeted us both.

 

“How are you, doctor? M. Poirot, this is the second time I’ve been here this

morning. I was anxious to catch you.”

 

“Perhaps I’d better be off,” I suggested rather awkwardly.

 

“Not on my account, doctor. No, it’s just this,” he went on, seating himself at

a wave of invitation from Poirot, “I’ve got a confession to make.”

 

“_En verité_?” said Poirot, with an air of polite interest.