clearly unravelled before him. He had got the last thread he needed to lead him

to the truth.

 

But at the time I had no suspicion of the fact. I overestimated his general

self-confidence, and I took it for granted that the things which puzzled me must

be equally puzzling to him.

 

My chief puzzle was what the man Charles Kent could have been doing at Fernly.

Again and again I put the question to myself and could get no satisfactory

reply.

 

At last I ventured a tentative query to Poirot. His reply was immediate.

 

“_Mon ami_, I do not think; I know.”

 

“Really?” I said incredulously.

 

“Yes, indeed. I suppose now that to you it would not make sense if I said that

he went to Fernly that night because he was born in Kent?”

 

I stared at him.

 

“It certainly doesn’t seem to make sense to me,” I said dryly.

 

“Ah!” said Poirot pityingly. “Well, no matter. I have still my little idea.”