“Poirot,” I said, “it seems to me we have been strangely remiss. I say
we—although I dare say _I___ would be nearer the mark. But you must pay
the penalty of your determined secrecy. So I say again we have been
strangely remiss. There is some one we have forgotten.”
“And who is that?” inquired Poirot, with twinkling eyes.
“Georges Conneau!”