“You are in error,” he said at last. “You have still one patient to see.”
“Not you?” I exclaimed in surprise.
“Ah, not me, bien entendu. Me, I have the health magnificent. No, to tell you the truth, it is a little complot of mine. There is some one I wish to see, you understand—and at the same time it is not necessary that the whole village should intrigue itself about the matter—which is what would happen if the lady were seen to come to my house—for it is a lady. But to you she has already come as a patient before.”
“Miss Russell!” I exclaimed.
“Précisément. I wish much to speak with her, so I send her the little note and make the appointment in your surgery. You are not annoyed with me?”
“On the contrary,” I said. “That is, presuming I am allowed to be present at the interview?”
“But naturally! In your own surgery!”
“You know,” I said, throwing down the pincers I was holding, “it’s extraordinarily intriguing, the whole thing. Every new development that arises is like the shake you give to a kaleidoscope—the thing changes entirely in aspect. Now, why are you so anxious to see Miss Russell?”
Poirot raised his eyebrows.
“Surely it is obvious?” he murmured.