and your hand shook like a leaf! I must say–-”
But I stopped suddenly. For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards, and putting his hands over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the keenest agony.
“Good heavens, Poirot!” I cried. “What is the matter? Are you taken ill?”
“No, no,” he gasped. “It is—it is—that I have an idea!”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, much relieved. “One of your ‘little ideas’?”
and your hand shook like a leaf! I must say–-”
But I stopped suddenly. For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards, and putting his hands over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the keenest agony.
“Good heavens, Poirot!” I cried. “What is the matter? Are you taken ill?”
“No, no,” he gasped. “It is—it is—that I have an idea!”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, much relieved. “One of your ‘little ideas’?”
