in trouble you should eye her—what you say—askance, is it not?”
Their notes had contained some absurd references to my supposed impulsiveness, and had suggested that I was susceptible to the charms of young women with hair of a certain shade. I thought Poirot’s reference to be in the worst of taste, but fortunately I was able to counter him.
“And what about you?” I demanded. “Are you going to try to cure your ‘overweening vanity?’ Your ‘finicky tidiness?’”
I was quoting, and I could see that he was not pleased with my retort.
“Oh, without doubt, Hastings, in some things they deceive themselves—tant mieux! They will learn in due time. Meanwhile we have learnt something, and to know is to be prepared.”
This last was a favourite axiom of his lately; so much so that I had begun to hate the sound of it.
“We know something, Hastings,” he continued: “Yes, we know something—and that is to the good—but we do not know nearly enough. We must know more.”
“In what way?”
Poirot settled himself back in his chair, straightened a box of matches which I had thrown
