THE WHOLE TRUTH

 

A slight gesture from Poirot enjoined me to stay behind the rest. I obeyed,

going over to the fire and thoughtfully stirring the big logs on it with the toe

of my boot.

 

I was puzzled. For the first time I was absolutely at sea as to Poirot’s

meaning. For a moment I was inclined to think that the scene I had just

witnessed was a gigantic piece of bombast—that he had been what he called

“playing the comedy” with a view to making himself interesting and important.

But, in spite of myself, I was forced to believe in an underlying reality. There

had been real menace in his words—a certain indisputable sincerity. But I still

believed him to be on entirely the wrong tack.

 

When the door shut behind the last of the party he came over to the fire.

 

“Well, my friend,” he said quietly, “and what do you think of it all?”

 

“I don’t know what to think,” I said frankly. “What was the point? Why not go

straight to Inspector Raglan with the truth instead of giving the guilty person

this elaborate warning?”

 

Poirot sat down and drew out his case of tiny Russian cigarettes. He smoked for

a minute or two in silence. Then:—