“No—no—it is not that. Like the chien de chasse, I follow the scent, and I get excited, and once on the scent I cannot be called off it. All that is true. But there is more…It is—how shall I put it?—a passion for getting at the truth. In all the world there is nothing so curious and so interesting and so beautiful as truth….”
There was silence for a little while after Poirot’s words.
Then he took up the paper on which Mr. Satterthwaite had carefully copied out the seven names, and read them aloud.
“Mrs. Dacres, Captain Dacres, Miss Wills, Miss Sutcliffe, Lady Mary Lytton Gore, Miss Lytton Gore, Oliver Manders.
“Yes,” he said, “suggestive, is it not?”
“What is suggestive about it?”
“The order in which the names occur.”
“I don’t think there is anything suggestive about it. We just wrote the names down without any particular order about it.”
“Exactly. The list is headed by Mrs. Dacres. I deduce from that that she is considered the most likely person to have committed the crime.”
“Not the most likely,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “The least unlikely would express it better.”
“And a third phrase would express it better still. She is perhaps the person you would all prefer to have committed the crime.”
Mr. Satterthwaite opened his lips impulsively, then met the gentle quizzical gaze of Poirot’s shining green eyes, and altered what he had been about to say.
“I wonder—perhaps, M. Poirot, you are right—unconsciously that may be true.”
“I would like to ask you something, Mr. Satterthwaite.”
“Certainly—certainly,” Mr. Satterthwaite answered complacently.
“From what you have told me, I gather that Sir Charles and Miss Lytton Gore went together to interview Mrs. Babbington.”
“Yes.”
“You did not accompany them?”
“No. Three would have been rather a crowd.”
Poirot smiled.
“And also, perhaps, your inclinations led you elsewhere. You had, as they say, different fish to fry. Where did you go, Mr. Satterthwaite?”
“I had tea with Lady Mary Lytton Gore,” said Mr. Satterthwaite stiffly.
“And what did you talk about?”
“She was so good as to confide in me some of the troubles of her early married life.”
He repeated the substance of Lady Mary’s story. Poirot nodded his head sympathetically.
“That is so true to life—the idealistic young girl who marries the bad hat and will listen to nobody. But did you talk of nothing else? Did you, for instance, not speak of Mr. Oliver Manders?”
“As a matter of fact we did.”
“And you learnt about him—what?”
Mr. Satterthwaite repeated what Lady Mary had told him. Then he said:
“What made you think we had talked of him?”