Four
I went down to dinner that night feeling that the whole of life had become suddenly unreal.
Once or twice, while dressing¹, I had asked myself if possibly Poirot had imagined the wholething. After all, the dear old chap was an old man now and sadly broken in health. He himselfmight declare his brain was as sound as ever—but in point of fact, was it? His whole life had beenspent in tracking down crime. Would it really be surprising if, in the end, he was to fancy crimeswhere no crimes were? His enforced inaction must have fretted² him sorely. What more likely thanthat he should invent for himself a new manhunt? Wishful thinking — a perfectly³ reasonableneurosis. He had selected a number of publicly reported happenings, and had read into themsomething that was not there — a shadowy figure behind them, a mad mass murderer. In allprobability Mrs. Etherington had really killed her husband, the labourer had shot his wife, a youngwoman had given her old aunt an overdose of morphia, a jealous wife had polished off herhusband as she had threatened to do, and a crazy spinster had really committed the murder forwhich she had subsequently given herself up. In fact these crimes were exactly what they seemed!
Against that view (surely the commonsense⁴ one) I could only set my own inherent belief inPoirot’s acumen⁵.
Poirot said that a murder had been arranged. For the second time Styles was to house a crime.
Time would prove or disprove that assertion, but if it were true, it behoved us to forestall⁶ thathappening.
And Poirot knew the identity of the murderer which I did not.
The more I thought about that, the more annoyed I became! Really, frankly⁷, it was damnedcheek of Poirot! He wanted my cooperation and yet he refused to take me into his confidence!
Why? There was the reason he gave—surely a most inadequate

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