Alfred Lee said: “Then you accept, M. Poirot?”

His hand, as it went to his mouth, shook slightly. His mild brown eyes were alight with a new

and feverish¹ expression. He stammered² slightly in his speech. Lydia, standing³ silently by, looked

at him with some anxiety.

Alfred said:

“You don’t know—you c-c-can’t imagine—what it m-m-means to me . . . My father’s

murderer must be f-f-found.”

Poirot said:

“Since you have assured me that you have reflected long and carefully—yes, I accept. But

you comprehend, Mr. Lee, there can be no drawing back. I am not the dog one sets on to hunt and

then recalls because you do not like the game he puts up!”

“Of course . . . of course . . . Everything is ready. Your bedroom is prepared. Stay as long as

you like—”

Poirot said gravely: “It will not be long.”

“Eh? What’s that?”

“I said it will not be long. There is in this crime such a restricted circle that it cannot possibly

take long to arrive at the truth. Already, I think, the end draws near.”

Alfred stared at him, “Impossible!” he said.

“Not at all. The facts all point more or less clearly in one direction. There is just some

irrelevant⁴ matter to be cleared out of the way. When this is done the truth will appear.”

Alfred said incredulously:

“You mean you know?”

Poirot smiled. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I know.”

Alfred said:

“My father—my father—” He turned away.

Poirot said briskly:

“There are, M. Lee, two requests that I have to make.”

Alfred said in a muffled⁵ voice:

“Anything—anything.”

“Then, in the first place, I would like the portrait of M. Lee as a young man placed in the

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