disasters, but it isn't—it can't be, anything but coincidence."
There was a nervousness about his manner which rather belied the words. I saw that Poirot was studying him keenly.
"Your heart is really in this work, Sir Guy?"
"Rather. No matter what happens, or what comes of it, the work is going on. Make up your mind to that."
Poirot wheeled round on the other.
"What have you to say to that, monsieur le docteur?"
"Well," drawled the doctor, "I'm not for quitting myself."
Poirot made one of those expressive grimaces of his.
"Then, évidemment, we must find out just how we stand. When did Mr. Schneider's death take place?"
"Three days ago."
"You are sure it was tetanus?"
"Dead sure."
"It couldn't have been a case of strychnine poisoning, for instance?"
"No, Monsieur Poirot. I see what you're getting at. But it was a clear case of tetanus."
