It was an ill-written, blurred epistle but I have kept it to this day.
Poirot was with me when I read it. The sheets fell from my hand, and I looked across at him.
“Did you know all the time that it was—the other?”
“Yes, my friend.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“To begin with, I could hardly believe it conceivable that you could make such a mistake. You had seen the photograph. The sisters are very alike, but by no means incapable of distinguishment.”
“But the fair hair?”
“A wig, worn for the sake of a piquant contrast on the stage. Is it conceivable that with twins one should be fair and one dark?”
“Why didn’t you tell me that night at the hotel in Coventry?”
“You were rather high-handed in your methods, mon ami,” said Poirot dryly. “You did not give me a chance.”