Poirot coughed.
"On m'a dit," he murmured, "that he adores her passionately."
Mirelle came towards them.
"He murdered his wife," she screamed. "There—now you have it! He told me beforehand that he meant to do it. He had got to an impasse—zut! he took the easiest way out."
"You say that M. Kettering murdered his wife."
"Yes, yes, yes. Have I not told you so?"
"The police," murmured Poirot, "will need proof of that—er—statement."
"I tell you I saw him come out of her compartment that night on the train."
"When?" asked Poirot sharply.
"Just before the train reached Lyons."