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I
pass
over
Alfred
Inglethorp
,
who
acted
the
bereaved
widower
in
a
manner
that
I
felt
to
be
disgusting
in
its
hypocrisy
.
Did
he
know
that
we
suspected
him
,
I
wondered
.
Surely
he
could
not
be
unaware
of
the
fact
,
conceal
it
as
we
would
.
Did
he
feel
some
secret
stirring
of
fear
,
or
was
he
confident
that
his
crime
would
go
unpunished
?
Surely
the
suspicion
in
the
atmosphere
must
warn
him
that
he
was
already
a
marked
man
.
But
did
everyone
suspect
him
?
What
about
Mrs
.
Cavendish
?
I
watched
her
as
she
sat
at
the
head
of
the
table
,
graceful
,
composed
,
enigmatic
.
In
her
soft
grey
frock
,
with
white
ruffles
at
the
wrists
falling
over
her
slender
hands
,
she
looked
very
beautiful
.
When
she
chose
,
however
,
her
face
could
be
sphinx
-
like
in
its
inscrutability
.
She
was
very
silent
,
hardly
opening
her
lips
,
and
yet
in
some
queer
way
I
felt
that
the
great
strength
of
her
personality
was
dominating
us
all
.
And
little
Cynthia
?
Did
she
suspect
?
She
looked
very
tired
and
ill
,
I
thought
.
The
heaviness
and
languor
of
her
manner
were
very
marked
.
I
asked
her
if
she
were
feeling
ill
,
and
she
answered
frankly
:
“
Yes
,
I
’
ve
got
the
most
beastly
headache
.
”
“
Have
another
cup
of
coffee
,
mademoiselle
?
”
said
Poirot
solicitously
.
“
It
will
revive
you
.
It
is
unparalleled
for
the
mal
de
tête
.
”
He
jumped
up
and
took
her
cup
.
“
No
sugar
,
”
said
Cynthia
,
watching
him
,
as
he
picked
up
the
sugar
-
tongs
.
“
No
sugar
?
You
abandon
it
in
the
war
-
time
,
eh
?
”
“
No
,
I
never
take
it
in
coffee
.
”
“
Sacré
!
”
murmured
Poirot
to
himself
,
as
he
brought
back
the
replenished
cup
.
