"I don't think she ever made one," said Kettering. "Why?"
"It is a very pretty little fortune that you inherit there," said Poirot—"a very pretty little fortune."
Although his eyes were still on the ceiling, he managed to see the dark flush that rose to Derek Kettering's face.
"What do you mean, and who are you?"
Poirot gently uncrossed his knees, withdrew his gaze from the ceiling, and looked the young man full in the face.
"My name is Hercule Poirot," he said quietly, "and I am probably the greatest detective in the world. You are quite sure that you did not see or speak to your wife on that train?"
"What are you getting at? Do you—do you mean to insinuate that I—I killed her?"
He laughed suddenly.
"I mustn't lose my temper; it's too palpably absurd. Why, if I killed her I should have had no need to steal her jewels, would I?"
"That is true," murmured Poirot, with a rather crestfallen air. "I did not think of that."