Hippolyte and Marie were staring at him uneasily. They were at a loss what to make of this unexpected and extremely strange visitor.
"Monsieur desires" murmured Hippolyte mechanically.
"I desire to know why you have lied to the police."
"Monsieur!" cried Hippolyte; "I—lied to the police? Never have I done such a thing."
M. Poirot shook his head.
"You are wrong," he said; "you have done it on several occasions. Let me see." He took a small notebook from his pocket and consulted it. "Ah, yes; on seven occasions at least. I will recite them to you."
In a gentle unemotional voice he proceeded to outline the seven occasions.
Hippolyte was taken aback.
"But it is not of these past lapses that I wish to speak," continued Poirot, "only, my dear friend, do not get into the habit of thinking yourself too clever. I come now to the particular lie in which I am concerned—your statement that the Comte de la Roche arrived at this villa on the morning of 14th January."
"But that was no lie. Monsieur; that was the truth. Monsieur le Comte arrived here on the morning of Tuesday, the 14th. That is so, Marie, is it not?"
Marie assented eagerly.
"Ah, yes, that is quite right. I remember it perfectly."
"Ah," said Poirot, "and what did you give your good master for déjeuner that day?"
"I" Marie paused, trying to collect herself.
