“The dear fellow isn’t perhaps very bright,” I said thoughtfully.
“Here comes Miss Howard,” said Poirot suddenly. “She is the very person. But I am in her black books, since I cleared Mr. Inglethorp. Still, we can but try.”
With a nod that was barely civil, Miss Howard assented to Poirot’s request for a few minutes’ conversation.
We went into the little morning-room, and Poirot closed the door.
“Well, Monsieur Poirot,” said Miss Howard impatiently, “what is it? Out with it. I’m busy.”
“Do you remember, mademoiselle, that I once asked you to help me?”
“Yes, I do.” The lady nodded. “And I told you I’d help you with pleasure—to hang Alfred Inglethorp.”
“Ah!” Poirot studied her seriously. “Miss Howard, I will ask you one question. I beg of you to reply to it truthfully.”
“Never tell lies,” replied Miss Howard.
“It is this. Do you still believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?”