on the other hand, with twinkling eyes was thoroughly enjoying the scene.
"Ah, it is magnificent!" he cried. "It can be seen—Madame has a temperament."
"I am an artist," said Mirelle; "every artist has a temperament. I told Dereek to beware, and he would not listen." She whirled round on Poirot suddenly. "It is true, is it not, that he wants to marry that English miss?"
Poirot coughed.
"On m'a dit" he murmured, "that he adores her passionately."
Mirelle came towards them.
"He murdered his wife," she screamed. "There—now you have it! He told me beforehand that he meant to do it. He had got to an impasse—zut! he took the easiest way out."
"You say that M. Kettering murdered his wife."
"Yes, yes, yes. Have I not told you so?"
"The police," murmured Poirot, "will need proof of that—er—statement."
"I tell you I saw him come out of her compartment that night on the train."
"When?" asked Poirot sharply.
"Just before the train reached Lyons."
"You will swear to that, Mademoiselle?"
It was a different Poirot who spoke now, sharp and decisive.
"Yes."
There was a moment's silence. Mirelle was panting, and her eyes, half defiant, half frightened, went from the face of one man to the other.
