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"
Ah
!
"
he
sighed
.
"
If
I
had
but
the
pen
of
a
Balzac
!
I
would
depict
this
scene
.
"
He
waved
his
hand
.
"
It
is
an
idea
,
that
,
"
said
Poirot
.
"
Ah
,
you
agree
?
It
has
not
been
done
,
I
think
?
And
yet
--
it
lends
itself
to
romance
,
my
friend
.
All
around
us
are
people
,
of
all
classes
,
of
all
nationalities
,
of
all
ages
.
For
three
days
these
people
,
these
strangers
to
one
another
,
are
brought
together
.
They
sleep
and
eat
under
one
roof
,
they
can
not
get
away
from
each
other
.
At
the
end
of
three
days
they
part
,
they
go
their
several
ways
,
never
,
perhaps
,
to
see
each
other
again
.
"
"
And
yet
,
"
said
Poirot
,
"
suppose
an
accident
--
"
"
Ah
no
,
my
friend
--
"
"
From
your
point
of
view
it
would
be
regrettable
,
I
agree
.
But
nevertheless
let
us
just
for
one
moment
suppose
it
.
Then
,
perhaps
,
all
these
here
are
linked
together
--
by
death
.
"
"
Some
more
wine
,
"
said
M.
Bouc
,
hastily
pouring
it
out
.
"
You
are
morbid
,
mon
cher
.
It
is
,
perhaps
,
the
digestion
.
"
"
It
is
true
,
"
agreed
Poirot
,
"
that
the
food
in
Syria
was
not
,
perhaps
,
quite
suited
to
my
stomach
.
"
