I followed him. Still frowning, he went across to the desk and took out a small pack of patience cards. Then he drew up a chair to the table, and, to my utter amazement, began solemnly to build card houses!
My jaw dropped involuntarily, and he said at once:
“No, mon ami, I am not in my second childhood! I steady my nerves, that is all. This employment requires precision of the fingers. With precision of the fingers goes precision of the brain. And never have I needed that more than now!”
“What is the trouble?” I asked.
With a great thump on the table, Poirot demolished his carefully built up edifice.
“It is this, mon ami! That I can build card houses seven stories high, but I cannot”—thump—“find”—thump—“ that last link of which I spoke to you.”
I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my peace, and he began slowly building up the cards again, speaking in jerks as he did so.
“It is done—so! By placing—one card—on another—with mathematical—precision!”
I watched the card house rising under his hands, story by story. He never hesitated or faltered. It was really almost like a conjuring trick.
“What a steady hand you’ve got,” I remarked. “I believe I’ve only seen your hand shake once.”