I laughed out loud.
"Nonsense," I cried. "He was stabbed in the neck. You know that as well as I do."
"After death, James," said Caroline; "to make a false clew."
"My good woman," I said, "I examined the body, and I know what I'm talking about. That wound wasn't inflicted after death—it was the cause of death, and you need make no mistake about it."
Caroline merely continued to look omniscient, which so annoyed me that I went on:—
"Perhaps you will tell me, Caroline, if I have a medical degree or if I have not?"
"You have the medical degree, I dare say, James—at least, I mean I know you have. But you've no imagination whatever."
"Having endowed you with a treble portion, there was none left over for me," I said dryly.
I was amused to notice Caroline's maneuvers that afternoon when Poirot duly arrived. My sister, without asking a direct question, skirted the subject of the mysterious guest in every way imaginable. By the twinkle in Poirot's eyes, I saw that he realized her object. He remained blandly impervious, and blocked her bowling so successfully that she herself was at a loss how to proceed.
Having, I suspect, quietly enjoyed the little game, he rose to his feet and suggested a walk.
"It is that I need to reduce the figure a little," he ex-
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