Treves. She isn’t my own mother, you know. I don’t like her. She wants father to die.”
It was all rather horrible. Luckily, before Poirot had time to reply, the doctor came back, and we had to carry on a forced conversation.
And then suddenly Poirot lay back in his chair with a hollow groan. His face was contorted with pain.
“My dear sir, what’s the matter?” cried the doctor.
“A sudden spasm. I am used to them. No, no, I require no assistance from you, doctor. If I might lie down upstairs.”
His request was instantly acceded to, and I accompanied him upstairs, where he collapsed on the bed, groaning heavily.
For the first minute or two I had been taken in, but I had quickly realised that Poirot was—as he would have put it—playing the comedy, and that his object was to be left alone upstairs near the patient’s room.
Hence I was quite prepared when, the instant we were alone, he sprang up.
“Quick, Hastings, the window. There is ivy outside. We can climb down before they begin to suspect.”
“Climb down?”
