"Not with the eyes of the body, perhaps; but with the eyes of the mind, yes."
The Inspector touched his forehead significantly with a grin at me. I was utterly bewildered, but I had faith in Poirot. Further discussion ended in our all driving back to Moreton with the Inspector. Poirot and I were taken to Grant, but a constable was to be present during the interview. Poirot went straight to the point.
"Grant, I know you to be innocent of this crime. Relate to me in your own words exactly what happened."
The prisoner was a man of medium height, with a somewhat unpleasing cast of features. He looked a jail-bird if ever a man did.
"Honest to God, I never did it," he whined. "Some one put those little glass figures amongst my traps. It was a frame-up, that's what it was. I went straight to my rooms when I came in, like I said. I never knew a thing till Betsy screeched out. S'welp me, God, I didn't."
Poirot rose.
"If you can't tell me the truth, that is the end of it."
"But, guv'nor—"
"You did go into the room—you did know your master was dead; and you were just preparing to make a bolt of it when the good Betsy made her terrible discovery."
The man stared at Poirot with a dropped jaw.