Poirot spread out his hands apologetically.
"Pardon me, mon ami, you were not precisely sympathique." He
turned to me earnestly. "Tell me--you see now that he must not
be arrested?"
"Perhaps," I said doubtfully, for I was really quite indifferent
to the fate of Alfred Inglethorp, and thought that a good fright
would do him no harm.
Poirot, who was watching me intently, gave a sigh.
"Come, my friend," he said, changing the subject, "apart from Mr.
Inglethorp, how did the evidence at the inquest strike you?"
"Oh, pretty much what I expected."
"Did nothing strike you as peculiar about it?"
My thoughts flew to Mary Cavendish, and I hedged:
"In what way?"
"Well, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's evidence for instance?"
I was relieved.
"Oh, Lawrence! No, I don't think so. He's always a nervous
chap."
"His suggestion that his mother might have been poisoned
accidentally by means of the tonic she was taking, that did not
strike you as strange--hein?"
"No, I can't say it did. The doctors ridiculed it of course.
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