For answer, the little man rose and crossed the room to where newspapers were filed. He brought me a copy of the Daily Budget, dated Friday, 16th September, and showed me an article dealing with the smuggling of cocaine. It was a somewhat lurid article, written with an eye to picturesque effect.
“That is what put cocaine into her head, my friend,” he said.
I would have catechized him further, for I did not quite understand his meaning, but at that moment the door opened and Geoffrey Raymond was announced.
He came in fresh and debonair as ever, and greeted us both.
“How are you, doctor? M. Poirot, this is the second time I’ve been here this morning. I was anxious to catch you.”
“Perhaps I’d better be off,” I suggested rather awkwardly.
“Not on my account, doctor. No, it’s just this,” he went on, seating himself at a wave of invitation from Poirot, “I’ve got a confession to make.”
“En verité?” said Poirot, with an air of polite interest.
“Oh, it’s of no consequence, really. But, as a matter of fact, my conscience has been pricking me ever since yesterday afternoon. You accused us all of keeping back something, M. Poirot. I plead guilty. I’ve had something up my sleeve.”
“And what is that, M. Raymond?”