“If that is indeed the truth, I congratulate you, mon ami. For as a rule you are not famous for seeing—eh, is it not so?”
I felt a little annoyed.
“Come now, don’t rub it in. You’ve been so confoundedly mysterious all along with your hints and your insignificant details that any one might fail to see what you were driving at.”
Poirot lit one of his little cigarettes with his usual precision. Then he looked up.
“And since you see everything now, mon ami, what exactly is it that you see?”
“Why, that it was Madame Daubreuil—Beroldy, who murdered Mr. Renauld. The similarity of the two cases proves that beyond a doubt.”
“Then you consider that Madame Beroldy was wrongly acquitted? That in actual fact she was guilty of connivance in her husband’s murder?”
I opened my eyes wide.
“But of course! Don’t you?”
Poirot walked to the end of the room, absentmindedly straightened a chair, and then said thoughtfully.