Nothing but the great danger through which
they have passed could have brought these two proud souls
together again."
I looked at Poirot in silent amazement. The colossal cheek of
the little man! Who on earth but Poirot would have thought of a
trial for murder as a restorer of conjugal happiness!
"I perceive your thoughts, mon ami," said Poirot, smiling at me.
"No one but Hercule Poirot would have attempted such a thing! And
you are wrong in condemning it. The happiness of one man and one
woman is the greatest thing in all the world."
His words took me back to earlier events. I remembered Mary as
she lay white and exhausted on the sofa, listening, listening.
There had come the sound of the bell below. She had started up.
Poirot had opened the door, and meeting her agonized eyes had
nodded gently. "Yes, madame," he said. "I have brought him back
to you." He had stood aside, and as I went out I had seen the
look in Mary's eyes, as John Cavendish had caught his wife in his
arms.
"Perhaps you are right, Poirot," I said gently.
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