“Hercule Poirot says he knows the reason the man went there that night,” I

observed.

 

“Does he?” cried the inspector eagerly.

 

“Yes,” I said maliciously. “He says he went there because he was born in Kent.”

 

I felt a distinct pleasure in passing on my own discomfiture.

 

Raglan stared at me for a moment or two uncomprehendingly. Then a grin

overspread his weaselly countenance and he tapped his forehead significantly.

 

“Bit gone here,” he said. “I’ve thought so for some time. Poor old chap, so

that’s why he had to give up and come down here. In the family, very likely.

He’s got a nephew who’s quite off his crumpet.”

 

“Poirot has?” I said, very surprised.

 

“Yes. Hasn’t he ever mentioned him to you? Quite docile, I believe, and all

that, but mad as a hatter, poor lad.”

 

“Who told you that?”

 

Again a grin showed itself on Inspector Raglan’s face.