"I've answered that already. I did not."
"You had, no doubt, your reasons."
Derek stared at him suspiciously.
"I—did—not—know—she—was—on—the—train," he explained, spacing his words elaborately, as though to some one dull of intellect.
"That is what you say, yes," murmured M. Carrège. A frown suffused Derek's face.
"I should like to know what you're driving at. Do you know what I think, M. Carrège?"
"What do you think, Monsieur?"
"I think the French police are vastly overrated. Surely you must have some data as to these gangs of train robbers. It's outrageous that such a thing could happen on a train de luxe like that, and that the French police should be helpless to deal with the matter."
"We are dealing with it, Monsieur, never fear."
"Madame Kettering, I understand, did not leave a will," interposed Poirot suddenly. His fingertips were joined together, and he was looking intently at the ceiling.