“Mrs. Ferrars was a very wealthy woman,” said Poirot dryly. “And the penalty for

murder is not a pleasant one.”

 

“Is there anything else that I can tell you?” inquired Mr. Hammond.

 

“I thank you, no,” said Poirot, rising. “All my excuses for having deranged

you.”

 

“Not at all, not at all.”

 

“The word derange,” I remarked, when we were outside again, “is applicable to

mental disorder only.”

 

“Ah!” cried Poirot, “never will my English be quite perfect. A curious language.

I should then have said disarranged, _n’est-ce pas_?”

 

“Disturbed is the word you had in mind.”

 

“I thank you, my friend. The word exact, you are zealous for it. _Eh bien_, what

about our friend Parker now? With twenty thousand pounds in hand, would he have

continued being a butler? _Je ne pense pas._ It is, of course, possible that he

banked the money under another name, but I am disposed to believe he spoke the

truth to us. If he is a scoundrel, he is a scoundrel on a mean scale. He has not

the big ideas.