Inglethorp. How
should he doubt that the man in his clothes, with his beard and
his glasses, was not Alfred Inglethorp?"
"It may be so," I said, fascinated by Poirot's eloquence. "But,
if that was the case, why does he not say where he was at six
o'clock on Monday evening?"
"Ah, why indeed?" said Poirot, calming down. "If he were
arrested, he probably would speak, but I do not want it to come
to that. I must make him see the gravity of his position. There
is, of course, something discreditable behind his silence. If he
did not murder his wife, he is, nevertheless, a scoundrel, and
has something of his own to conceal, quite apart from the
murder."
"What can it be?" I mused, won over to Poirot's views for the
moment, although still retaining a faint conviction that the
obvious deduction was the correct one.
"Can you not guess?" asked Poirot, smiling.
"No, can you?"
"Oh, yes, I had a little idea sometime ago--and it has turned out
to be correct."
"You never told me," I said reproachfully.
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