“It might be,” I said, “if they were ever allowed to do so spontaneously.

Whether they enjoy having confidences screwed out of them by force is another

matter.”

 

Caroline merely looked at me with the air of a Christian martyr enjoying

martyrdom.

 

“You are so self-contained, James,” she said. “You hate speaking out, or parting

with any information yourself, and you think everybody else must be just like

you. I should hope that I never screw confidences out of anybody. For instance,

if M. Poirot comes in this afternoon, as he said he might do, I shall not dream

of asking him who it was arrived at his house early this morning.”

 

“Early this morning?” I queried.

 

“Very early,” said Caroline. “Before the milk came. I just happened to be

looking out of the window—the blind was flapping. It was a man.

 

He came in a closed car, and he was all muffled up. I couldn’t get a glimpse of

his face. But I will tell you _my_ idea, and you’ll see that I’m right.”

 

“What’s your idea?”

 

Caroline dropped her voice mysteriously.