ed between annoyance and
amusement. He was so tremendously sure of himself. As though he read my
thoughts, he nodded gently.

"Oh, yes, mon ami, I would do what I say." He got up and laid his hand
on my shoulder. His physiognomy underwent a complete change. Tears
came into his eyes. "In all this, you see, I think of that poor Mrs.
Inglethorp who is dead. She was not extravagantly loved--no. But she was
very good to us Belgians--I owe her a debt."

I endeavoured to interrupt, but Poirot swept on.

"Let me tell you this, Hastings. She would never forgive me if I let
Alfred Inglethorp, her husband, be arrested now--when a word from me
could save him!"

CHAPTER VI. THE INQUEST

In the interval before the inquest, Poirot was unfailing in his
activity. Twice he was closeted with Mr. Wells. He also took long
walks into the country. I rather resented his not taking me into his
confidence, the more so as I could not in the least guess what he was
driving at.

It occurred to me that he might have been making inquiries at Raikes's
farm; so, finding him out when I called at Leastways Cottage on
Wednesday evening, I walked over there by the fields, hoping to meet
him. But there was no sign of him, and I hesitated to go right up to the
farm itself. As I walked away, I met an aged rustic, who leered at me
cunningly.

"You'm from the Hall, bain't you?" he asked.

"Yes. I'm looking for a friend of mine whom I thought might have walked
this way."

"A little chap? As waves his hands when he talks? One of them Belgies
from the village?"

"Yes," I said eagerly. "He has been here, then?"

"Oh, ay, he's been here, right enough. More'n once too. Friend of yours,
is he? Ah, you gentlemen from the Hall--you'n a pretty lot!" And he
leered more jocosely than ever.

"Why, do the gentlemen from the Hall come here often?" I asked, as
carelessly as I could.

He winked at me knowingly.

"_One_ does, mister. Naming no names, mind. And a very liberal gentleman
too! Oh, thank you, sir, I'm sure."

I walked on sharply. Evelyn Howard had been right then, and I
experienced a sharp twinge of disgust, as I thought of Alfred
Inglethorp's liberality with another woman's money. Had that piquant
gipsy face been at the bottom of the crime, or was it the baser
mainspring of money? Probably a judicious mixture of both.

On one point, Poirot seemed to have a curious obsession. He once or
twice observed to me that he thought Dorcas must hav