“It seems a little unfair on Mary Marvell. She has lost her diamond
through no fault of her own.”
“Bah!” said Poirot brutally. “She has a magnificent advertisement.
That is all she cares for, that one! Now the other, she is
different. _Bonne mère, très femme!_”
“Yes,” I said doubtfully, hardly sharing Poirot’s views on
femininity. “I suppose it was Rolf who sent her the duplicate
letters.”
“_Pas du tout_,” said Poirot briskly. “She came by the advice of
Mary Cavendish to seek my aid in her dilemma. Then she heard that
Mary Marvell, whom she knew to be her enemy, had been here, and
she changed her mind, jumping at a pretext that _you_, my friend,
offered her. A very few questions sufficed to show me that _you_
told her of the letters, not she you! She jumped at the chance your
words offered.”
“I don’t believe it,” I cried, stung.
“_Si, si, mon ami_, it is a pity that you study not the psychology.
She told you that the letters were destroyed? Oh, la la, _never_
does a woman destroy a letter if she can avoid it! Not even if it
would be more prudent to do so!”
“It’s all very well,” I said, my anger rising, “but you’ve made a
perfect fool of me! From beginning to end! No, it’s all very well
to try and explain it away afterwards. There really is a limit!”
“But you were so enjoying yourself, my friend. I had not the heart
to shatter your illusions.”
“It’s no good. You’ve gone a bit too far this time.”
“_Mon Dieu!_ but how you enrage yourself for nothing, _mon ami_!”
“I’m fed up!” I went out, banging the door. Poirot had made an
absolute laughing-stock of me. I decided that he needed a sharp
lesson. I would let some time elapse before I forgave him. He had
encouraged me to make a perfect fool of myself!