something in the shaking hands, the trembling
shrillness of the voice, warned him that the denial
was too vehement, that its very insistence was in
itself suspect. He contented himself with saying:
"And where do I come in, Monsieur?"
Benedict Farley calmed down suddenly. He
tapped with an emphatic finger on the table beside
him.
154
Agatha Christie
"There's another possibility. And if it's right,
you're the man to know about it! You're famous,
you've had hundreds of cases--fantastic, improbable
cases! You'd know if anyone does."
"Know what?"
Farley's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Supposing someone wants to kill me ....
Could they do it this way? Could they make me
dream that dream night after night?"
"Hypnotism, you mean?"
"Yes."
Hercule Poirot considered the question.
"It would be possible, I suppose," he said at
last. "It is more a question for a doctor."
"You don't know of such a case in your experience?''
"Not precisely on those lines, no."
"You see what I'm driving at? I'm made to
dream the same dream, night after night, night
after night--and then--one day the suggestion is
too much for me--and I act upon it. I do what