"Recognize my voice, do you? Where do you think you heard it before?"
"On Friday evening last, outside the gates of Fernly Park. You asked me the way there."
"I did, did I?"
"Do you admit it?" asked the inspector.
"I don't admit anything. Not till I know what you've got on me."
"Have you not read the papers in the last few days?" asked Poirot, speaking for the first time.
The man's eyes narrowed.
"So that's it, is it? I saw an old gent had croaked at Fernly. Trying to make out I did the job, are you?"
"You were there that night," said Poirot quietly.
"How do you know, mister?"
"By this." Poirot took something from his pocket and held it out.
It was the goose quill we had found in the summerhouse.
At the sight of it the man's face changed. He half held out his hand.
"Snow," said Poirot thoughtfully. "No, my friend, it is empty. It lay where you dropped it in the summerhouse that night."
Charles Kent looked at him uncertainly.
"You seem to know a hell of a lot about everything, you little foreign cock duck. Perhaps you remember this: the papers say that the old gent was croaked between a quarter to ten and ten o'clock?"
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