M. Carrège cleared his throat.
"We must not accept this alibi without very cautious inquiry," he declared. He struck the bell upon the table with his hand.
In another minute a tall dark man, exquisitely dressed, with a somewhat haughty cast of countenance, entered the room. So very aristocratic-looking was the Count, that it would have seemed sheer heresy even to whisper that his father had been an obscure corn-chandler in Nantes—which, as a matter of fact, was the case. Looking at him, one would have been prepared to swear that innumerable ancestors of his must have perished by the guillotine in the French Revolution.
"I am here, gentlemen," said the Count haughtily.
"May I ask why you wish to see me?"
"Pray be seated. Monsieur le Comte," said the Examining Magistrate politely. "It is the affair of the death of Madame Kettering that we are investigating."
"The death of Madame Kettering? I do not understand."
"You were—ahem!—acquainted with the lady, I believe, Monsieur le Comte?"
"Certainly I was acquainted with her. What has that to do with the matter?"
Sticking an eyeglass in his eye, he looked coldly round the room, his glance resting longest on Poirot, who was gazing at him with a kind of simple, innocent admiration which was most pleasing to the Count's vanity. M. Carrège leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat.
