gether at half-past seven, and that the former had then gone to my workshop to finish his reading of the manuscript.
"I hope, James," said my sister, "that you've been careful in what you say about me in it?"
My jaw dropped. I had not been careful at all.
"Not that it matters very much," said Caroline, reading my expression correctly. "M. Poirot will know what to think. He understands me much better than you do."
I went into the workshop. Poirot was sitting by the window. The manuscript lay neatly piled on a chair beside him. He laid his hand on it and spoke.
"Eh bien,” he said, "I congratulate you—on your modesty!"
"Oh!" I said, rather taken aback.
"And on your reticence," he added.
I said "Oh!" again.
"Not so did Hastings write," continued my friend. “On every page, many, many times was the word 'I.' What he thought—what he did. But you—you have kept your personality in the background; only once or twice does it obtrude—in scenes of home life, shall we say?"
I blushed a little before the twinkle in his eye.
"What do you really think of the stuff?" I asked nervously.
"You want my candid opinion?"
"Yes."
Poirot laid his jesting manner aside.
"A very meticulous and accurate account," he said kindly. “You have recorded all the facts faithfully and
[272]
