The secretary was debonair as ever.

 

“What’s the great idea?” he said, laughing. “Some scientific machine?

 

Do we have bands round our wrists which register guilty heart-beats?

 

There is such an invention, isn’t there?”

 

“I have read of it, yes,” admitted Poirot. “But me, I am old-fashioned.

 

I use the old methods. I work only with the little gray cells. Now let us

begin—but first I have an announcement to make to you all.”

 

He took Ursula’s hand and drew her forward.

 

“This lady is Mrs. Ralph Paton. She was married to Captain Paton last March.”

 

A little shriek burst from Mrs. Ackroyd.

 

“Ralph! Married! Last March! Oh! but it’s absurd. How could he be?”

 

She stared at Ursula as though she had never seen her before.

 

“Married to Bourne?” she said. “Really, M. Poirot, I don’t believe you.”