"But it is not of these past lapses that I wish to speak," continued Poirot, "only, my dear friend, do not get into the habit of thinking yourself too clever. I come now to the particular lie in which I am concerned—your statement that the Comte de la Roche arrived at this villa on the morning of 14th January."
"But that was no lie, Monsieur; that was the truth. Monsieur le Comte arrived here on the morning of Tuesday, the 14th. That is so, Marie, is it not?"
Marie assented eagerly.
"Ah, yes, that is quite right. I remember it perfectly."
"Ah," said Poirot, "and what did you give your good master for déjeuner that day?"
"I—" Marie paused, trying to collect herself.
"Odd," said Poirot, "how one remembers some things—and forgets others."
He leant forward and struck the table a blow with his fist; his eyes flashed with anger.
"Yes, yes, it is as I say. You tell your lies and you think nobody knows. But there are two people who know. Yes—two people. One is le bon Dieu—"
He raised a hand to heaven, and then settling himself back in his chair and shutting his eyelids, he murmured comfortably: