"Pray be seated, Monsieur le Comte," said the Examining Magistrate politely. "It is the affair of the death of Madame Kettering that we are investigating."
"The death of Madame Kettering? I do not understand."
"You were—ahem!—acquainted with the lady, I believe, Monsieur le Comte?"
"Certainly I was acquainted with her. What has that to do with the matter?"
Sticking an eyeglass in his eye, he looked coldly round the room, his glance resting longest on Poirot, who was gazing at him with a kind of simple, innocent admiration which was most pleasing to the Count's vanity. M. Carrège leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat.
"You do not perhaps know, Monsieur le Comte"—he paused—"that Madame Kettering was murdered?"
"Murdered? Mon Dieu, how terrible!"
The surprise and the sorrow were excellently done—so well done, indeed, as to seem wholly natural.
"Madame Kettering was strangled between Paris and Lyons," continued M. Carrège, "and her jewels were stolen."
"It is iniquitous!" cried the Count warmly; "the police should do something about these train bandits. Nowadays no one is safe."