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“
Bien
!
”
he
said
at
last
.
“
It
is
evident
!
I
had
an
idea
—
but
clearly
I
was
mistaken
.
Yes
,
altogether
I
was
mistaken
.
Yet
it
is
strange
.
But
no
matter
!
”
And
,
with
a
characteristic
shrug
,
he
dismissed
whatever
it
was
that
was
worrying
him
from
his
mind
.
I
could
have
told
him
from
the
beginning
that
this
obsession
of
his
over
the
coffee
was
bound
to
end
in
a
blind
alley
,
but
I
restrained
my
tongue
.
After
all
,
though
he
was
old
,
Poirot
had
been
a
great
man
in
his
day
.
“
Breakfast
is
ready
,
”
said
John
Cavendish
,
coming
in
from
the
hall
.
“
You
will
breakfast
with
us
,
Monsieur
Poirot
?
”
Poirot
acquiesced
.
I
observed
John
.
Already
he
was
almost
restored
to
his
normal
self
.
The
shock
of
the
events
of
the
last
night
had
upset
him
temporarily
,
but
his
equable
poise
soon
swung
back
to
the
normal
.
He
was
a
man
of
very
little
imagination
,
in
sharp
contrast
with
his
brother
,
who
had
,
perhaps
,
too
much
.
Ever
since
the
early
hours
of
the
morning
,
John
had
been
hard
at
work
,
sending
telegrams
—
one
of
the
first
had
gone
to
Evelyn
Howard
—
writing
notices
for
the
papers
,
and
generally
occupying
himself
with
the
melancholy
duties
that
a
death
entails
.
“
May
I
ask
how
things
are
proceeding
?
”
he
said
.
“
Do
your
investigations
point
to
my
mother
having
died
a
natural
death
—
or
—
or
must
we
prepare
ourselves
for
the
worst
?
”
“
I
think
,
Mr
.
Cavendish
,
”
said
Poirot
gravely
,
“
that
you
would
do
well
not
to
buoy
yourself
up
with
any
false
hopes
.
Can
you
tell
me
the
views
of
the
other
members
of
the
family
?
”
“
My
brother
Lawrence
is
convinced
that
we
are
making
a
fuss
over
nothing
.
He
says
that
everything
points
to
its
being
a
simple
case
of
heart
failure
.
”
“
He
does
,
does
he
?
That
is
very
interesting
—
very
interesting
,
”
murmured
Poirot
softly
.
“
And
Mrs
.
Cavendish
?
”
