he explained, spacing his words elaborately, as though to some one dull of intellect.
"That is what you say, yes," murmured M. Carrège.
A frown suffused Derek's face.
"I should like to know what you’re driving at. Do you know what I think, M. Carrège.?"
"What do you think. Monsieur?"
"I think the French police are vastly overrated. Surely you must have some data as to these gangs of train robbers. It’s outrageous that such a tiling could happen on a train de luxe like that, and that the French police should be helpless to deal with the matter."
"We are dealing with it. Monsieur, never fear."
"Madame Kettering, I understand, did not leave a will," interposed Poirot suddenly. His fingertips were joined together, and he was looking intently at the ceiling.
"I don't think she ever made one," said Kettering.
"Why?"
"It is a very pretty little fortune that you inherit there," said Poirot—"a very pretty little fortune."
Although his eyes were still on the ceiling, he managed to see the dark flush that rose to Derek Kettering's face.
"What do you mean, and who are you?"
Poirot gently uncrossed his knees, withdrew his gaze from the ceiling, and looked the young man full in the face.
"My name is Hercule Poirot," he said quietly, "and I am probably the greatest detective in the world. You are quite sure that you did not see or speak to your wife on that train?"
