“_Eh bien_,” he said, “I congratulate you—on your modesty!”

 

“Oh!” I said, rather taken aback.

 

“And on your reticence,” he added.

 

I said “Oh!” again.

 

“Not so did Hastings write,” continued my friend. “On every page, many, many

times was the word ‘I.’ What _he_ thought—what _he_ did.

 

But you—you have kept your personality in the background; only once or twice

does it obtrude—in scenes of home life, shall we say?”

 

I blushed a little before the twinkle in his eye.

 

“What do you really think of the stuff?” I asked nervously.

 

“You want my candid opinion?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Poirot laid his jesting manner aside.

 

“A very meticulous and accurate account,” he said kindly. “You have recorded all