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.

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?"