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have confused memories of the further events of that night. Poirot seemed deaf to my repeated questions. He was engaged in overwhelming Françoise with reproaches for not having told him of Mrs. Renauld’s change of sleeping-quarters.

I caught him by the shoulder, determined to attract his attention, and make myself heard.

“But you must have known,” I expostulated. “You were taken up to see her this afternoon.”

Poirot deigned to attend to me for a brief moment.

“She had been wheeled on a sofa into the middle roomher boudoir,” he explained.

“But, monsieur,” cried Françoise, “Madame changed her room almost immediately after the crime! The associationsthey were too distressing!”

“Then why was I not told,” vociferated Poirot, striking the table, and working himself into a first-class passion. “I demand youwhywasInottold? You are an old woman completely imbecile! And Léonie and Denise are no better. All of you are triple idiots! Your stupidity has nearly caused the death of your mistress. But for this courageous child"

He broke off, and, darting across the room to where the girl was bending over ministering to Mrs. Renauld, he embraced her with Gallic fervorslightly to my annoyance.

I was aroused from my condition of mental fog by a sharp