warning her, pointing out to her some menace that she had not seen.
"Why do you say that I am in the middle of it? It is true that I had that conversation with Mrs. Kettering just before she died, but now—now all that is over. I am not connected with the case any more."
"Ah, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, can we ever say, 'I have finished with this or that'?"
Katherine turned defiantly round to face him.
"What is it?" she asked. "You are trying to tell me something—to convey it to me rather. But I am not clever at taking hints. I would much rather that you said anything you have to say straight out."
Poirot looked at her sadly. "Ah, mais c'est Anglais ça," he murmured, "everything in black and white, everything clear cut and well defined. But life, it is not like that, Mademoiselle. There are the things that are not yet, but which cast their shadow before."
He dabbed his brow with a very large silk pocket-handkerchief and murmured:
"Ah, but it is that I become poetical. Let us, as you say, speak only of facts. And, speaking of facts, tell me what you think of Major Knighton."
"I like him very much indeed," said Katherine warmly; "he is quite delightful."
Poirot sighed.
"What is the matter?" asked Katherine.
"You reply so heartily," said Poirot. "If you had said in an indifferent voice, 'Oh, quite nice,' eh bien, do you know I should have been better pleased."
Katherine did not answer. She felt slightly uncomfortable. Poirot went on dreamily:
