“_Précisément._ I wish much to speak with her, so I send her the little note and

make the appointment in your surgery. You are not annoyed with me?”

 

“On the contrary,” I said. “That is, presuming I am allowed to be present at the

interview?”

 

“But naturally! In your own surgery!”

 

“You know,” I said, throwing down the pincers I was holding, “it’s

extraordinarily intriguing, the whole thing. Every new development that arises

is like the shake you give to a kaleidoscope—the thing changes entirely in

aspect. Now, why are you so anxious to see Miss Russell?”

 

Poirot raised his eyebrows.

 

“Surely it is obvious?” he murmured.

 

“There you go again,” I grumbled. “According to you everything is obvious. But

you leave me walking about in a fog.”

 

Poirot shook his head genially at me.

 

“You mock yourself at me. Take the matter of Mademoiselle Flora. The inspector

was surprised—but you—you were not.”