o was nevertheless horrified by such deliberate perjury.

After this, as it was growing late, the case was adjourned till Monday.

Poirot, I noticed, was looking profoundly discouraged. He had that
little frown between the eyes that I knew so well.

"What is it, Poirot?" I inquired.

"Ah, mon ami, things are going badly, badly."

In spite of myself, my heart gave a leap of relief. Evidently there was
a likelihood of John Cavendish being acquitted.

When we reached the house, my little friend waved aside Mary's offer of
tea.

"No, I thank you, madame. I will mount to my room."

I followed him. Still frowning, he went across to the desk and took out
a small pack of patience cards. Then he drew up a chair to the table,
and, to my utter amazement, began solemnly to build card houses!

My jaw dropped involuntarily, and he said at once:

"No, mon ami, I am not in my second childhood! I steady my nerves,
that is all. This employment requires precision of the fingers. With
precision of the fingers goes precision of the brain. And never have I
needed that more than now!"

"What is the trouble?" I asked.

With a great thump on the table, Poirot demolished his carefully built
up edifice.

"It is this, mon ami! That I can build card houses seven stories high,
but I cannot"--thump--"find"--thump--"that last link of which I spoke to
you."

I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my peace, and he began
slowly building up the cards again, speaking in jerks as he did so.

"It is done--so! By placing--one card--on another--with
mathematical--precision!"

I watched the card house rising under his hands, story by story. He
never hesitated or faltered. It was really almost like a conjuring
trick.

"What a steady hand you've got," I remarked. "I believe I've only seen
your hand shake once."

"On an occasion when I was enraged, without doubt," observed Poirot,
with great placidity.

"Yes indeed! You were in a towering rage. Do you remember? It was when
you discovered that the lock of the despatch-case in Mrs. Inglethorp's
bedroom had been forced. You stood by the mantel-piece, twiddling the
things on it in your usual fashion, and your hand shook like a leaf! I
must say----"

But I stopped suddenly. For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate
cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards, and putting his hands
over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the
keenest agony.

"Good hea