Fourteen

THE CHOCOLATE BOX

It was a wild night. Outside, the wind howled malevolently¹, and the rain beat against the windowsin great gusts².

Poirot and I sat facing the hearth³, our legs stretched out to the cheerful blaze. Between us wasa small table. On my side of it stood some carefully brewed⁴ hot toddy; on Poirot’s was a cup ofthick, rich chocolate which I would not have drunk for a hundred pounds! Poirot sipped⁵ the thickbrown mess in the pink china cup, and sighed with contentment.

“Quelle belle⁶ vie!” he murmured.

“Yes, it’s a good old world,” I agreed. “Here am I with a job, and a good job too! And hereare you, famous—”

“Oh, mon ami!?” protested Poirot.

“But you are. And rightly so! When I think back on your long line of successes, I ampositively amazed. I don’t believe you know what failure is!”

“He would be a droll⁷ kind of original who could say that!”

“No, but seriously, have you ever failed?”

“Innumerable times, my friend. What would you? La bonne chance, it cannot always be onyour side. I have been called in too late. Very often another, working towards the same goal, hasarrived there first. Twice have I been stricken down with illness just as I was on the point ofsuccess. One must take the downs with the ups, my friend.”

“I didn’t quite mean that,” I said. “I meant, had you ever been completely down and out overa case through your own

fault?”

“Ah, I comprehend! You ask if I have ever made the complete prize ass⁸ of myself, as you sayover here? Once, my friend—” A slow, reflective smile hovered⁹ over his face. “Yes, once I made afool of myself.”

He sat up suddenly in his chair.

“See here, my friend, you have, I know, kept a record of my little successes. You shall addone more story to the collection, the story of a failure!”

He leaned forward and placed a log on the fire. Then, after carefully wiping his hands on alittle duster that hung on a nail by the fireplace, he leaned back and commenced hisstory.

That of which I tell you (said M.?Poirot) took place in Belgium many years ago. It was at thetime of the terrible struggle in France between church and state. M.?Paul Déroulard was a Frenchdeputy of note. It was an open secret that the portfolio¹⁰ of a Minister awaited him. He was amongthe bitterest of the anti-Catholic party, and it was certain that on his accession to power, he wouldhave to face violent enmity. He was in many ways a peculiar¹¹ man. Though he neither drank norsmoked, he was nevertheless not so scrupulous¹² in other ways. You comprehend, Hastings, c’étaitdes femmes—toujours des femmes!

He had married some years earlier a young lady from Brussels who had brought him asubstantial dot. Undoubtedly¹³ the money was useful to him in his career, as his family was not rich,though on the other hand he was entitled to call himself M.?le Baron¹⁴ if he chose. There were nochildren of the marriage, and his wife died after two years—the result of a fall downstairs. Amongthe property which she bequeathed to him was a house on the Avenue Louise in Brussels.

It was in this house that his sudden death took place, the event coinciding with the resignationof the Minister whose portfolio he was to inherit. All the papers printed long notices of his career.

His death, which had taken place quite suddenly in the evening after dinner, was attributed to heartfailure.

At that time, mon ami, I was, as you know, a member of the Belgian detective force. Thedeath of M.?Paul Déroulard was not particularly interesting to me. I am, as you also know, boncatholique, and his demise¹⁵ seemed to me fortunate.

It was some three days afterwards, when my vacation had just begun, that I received a visitorat my own apartments—a lady, heavily veiled, but evidently quite young; and I perceived at oncethat she was a jeune fille tout¹⁶ à fait comme il faut.

“You are Monsieur Hercule Poirot?” she asked in a low sweet voice.

I bowed.

“Of the detective service?”

Again I bowed. “Be seated, I pray of you, mademoiselle,” I said.

She accepted a chair and drew aside her veil. Her face was charming, though marred¹⁸ withtears, and haunted as though with some poignant¹⁹ anxiety.

“Monsieur,” she said, “I understand that you are now taking a vacation. Therefore you will befree to take up a private case. You understand that I do not wish to call in the police.”

I shook my head. “I fear what you ask is impossible, mademoiselle. Even though on vacation,I am still of the police.”

She leaned forward. “Ecoutez, monsieur. All that I ask of you is to investigate. The result ofyour investigations²¹ you are at perfect liberty to report to the police. If what I believe to be true istrue, we shall need all the machinery²² of the law.”

That placed a somewhat different complexion²³ on the matter, and I placed myself at herservice without more ado.

A slight colour rose in her cheeks. “I thank you, monsieur. It is the death of M.?PaulDéroulard that I ask you to investigate.”

“Comment?” I exclaimed, surprised.

“Monsieur, I have nothing to go upon—nothing but my woman’s instinct, but I am convinced—convinced, I tell you—that M.?Déroulard did not die a natural death!”

“But surely the doctors—”

“Doctors may be mistaken. He was so robust²⁴, so strong. Ah, Monsieur Poirot, I beseech²⁵ ofyou to help me—”

The poor child was almost beside herself. She would have knelt to me. I soothed²⁶ her as best Icould.

“I will help you, mademoiselle. I feel almost sure that your fears are unfounded, but we willsee. First, I will ask you to describe to me the inmates²⁷ of the house.”

“There are the domestics, of course, Jeannette, Félice, and Denise the cook. She has beenthere many years; the others are simple country girls. Also there is Fran?ois, but he too is an oldservant. Then there is Monsieur Déroulard’s mother who lived with him, and myself. My name isVirginie Mesnard. I am a poor cousin of the late Madame Déroulard, M.?Paul’s wife, and I havebeen a member of their ménage for over three years. I have now described to you the household.

There were also two guests staying in the house.”

“And they were?”

“M.?de Saint Alard, a neighbour of M.?Déroulard’s in France. Also an English friend,Mr.?John Wilson.”

“Are they still with you?”

“Mr.?Wilson, yes, but M.?de Saint Alard departed yesterday.”

“And what is your plan, Mademoiselle Mesnard?”

“If you will present yourself at the house in half an hour’s time, I will have arranged somestory to account for your presence. I had better represent you to be connected with journalism²⁸ insome way. I shall say you have come from Paris, and that you have brought a card of introductionfrom M.?de Saint Alard. Madame Déroulard is very feeble in health, and will pay little attention todetails.”

On mademoiselle’s ingenious pretext²⁹ I was admitted to the house, and after a brief interviewwith the dead deputy’s mother, who was a wonderfully imposing³⁰ and aristocratic figure thoughobviously in failing health, I was made free of the premises³¹.

I wonder, my friend (continued Poirot), whether you can possibly figure to yourself thedifficulties of my task? Here was a man whose death had taken place three days previously³². Ifthere had been foul³³ play, only one possibility was admittable—poison! And I had no chance ofseeing the body, and there was no possibility of examining, or analysing, any medium in which thepoison could have been administered. There were no clues, false or otherwise, to consider. Had theman been poisoned? Had he died a natural death? I, Hercule Poirot, with nothing to help me, hadto decide.

First, I interviewed the domestics, and with their aid, I recapitulated³⁴ the evening. I paidespecial notice to the food at dinner, and the method of serving it. The soup had been served byM.?Déroulard himself from a tureen. Next a dish of cutlets, then a chicken. Finally, a compote offruits. And all placed on the table, and served by Monsieur himself. The coffee was brought in abig pot to the dinner-table. Nothing there, mon ami—impossible to poison one without poisoningall!

After dinner Madame Déroulard had retired³⁵ to her own apartments and MademoiselleVirginie had accompanied her. The three men had adjourned³⁶ to M.?Déroulard’s study. Here theyhad chatted amicably³⁷ for some time, when suddenly, without any warning, the deputy had fallenheavily to the ground. M.?de Saint Alard had rushed out and told Fran?ois to fetch the doctorimmediately. He said it was without doubt an apoplexy, explained the man. But when the doctorarrived, the patient was past help.

Mr.?John Wilson, to whom I was presented by Mademoiselle Virginie, was what was knownin those days as a regular John Bull Englishman, middle-aged³⁸ and burly. His account, delivered invery British French, was substantially the same.

“Déroulard went very red in the face, and down he fell.”

There was nothing further to be found out there. Next I went to the scene of the tragedy, thestudy, and was left alone there at my own request. So far there was nothing to supportMademoiselle Mesnard’s theory. I could not but believe that it was a delusion³⁹ on her part.

Evidently she had entertained a romantic passion for the dead man which had not permitted her totake a normal view of the case. Nevertheless, I searched the study with meticulous⁴⁰ care. It was justpossible that a hypodermic needle might have been introduced into the dead man’s chair in such away as to allow of a fatal injection. The minute puncture⁴¹ it would cause was likely to remainunnoticed. But I could discover no sign to support the theory. I flung myself down in the chairwith a gesture of

despair.

“Enfin, I abandon it!” I said aloud. “There is not a clue anywhere! Everything is perfectlynormal.”

As I said the words, my eyes fell on a large box of chocolates standing⁴² on a table near by, andmy heart gave a leap. It might not be a clue to M.?Déroulard’s death, but here at least wassomething that was not normal. I lifted the lid. The box was full, untouched; not a chocolate wasmissing—but that only made the peculiarity⁴³ that had caught my eye more striking. For, see you,Hastings, while the box itself was pink, the lid was blue. Now, one often sees a blue ribbon on apink box, and vice¹⁷ versa, but a box of one colour, and a lid of another—no, decidedly—?a ne sevoit jamais!

I did not as yet see that this little incident was of any use to me, yet I determined⁴⁴ toinvestigate it as being out of the ordinary. I rang the bell for Fran?ois, and asked him if his latemaster had been fond of sweets. A faint melancholy⁴⁵ smile came to his lips.

“Passionately fond of them, monsieur. He would always have a box of chocolates in thehouse. He did not drink wine of any kind, you see.”

“Yet this box has not been touched?” I lifted the lid to show?him.

“Pardon, monsieur, but that was a new box purchased on the day of his death, the other beingnearly finished.”

“Then the other box was finished on the day of his death,” I said slowly.

“Yes, monsieur, I found it empty in the morning and threw it away.”

“Did M.?Déroulard eat sweets at all hours of the day?”

“Usually after dinner, monsieur.”

I began to see light.

“Fran?ois,” I said, “you can be discreet⁴⁷?”

“If there is need, monsieur.”

“Bon! Know, then, that I am of the police. Can you find me that other box?”

“Without doubt, monsieur. It will be in the dustbin.”

He departed, and returned in a few minutes with a dust-covered object. It was the duplicate ofthe box I held, save for the fact that this time the box was blue and the lid was pink. I thankedFran?ois, recommended him once more to be discreet, and left the house in the Avenue Louisewithout more ado.

Next I called upon the doctor who had attended M.?Déroulard. With him I had a difficult task.

He entrenched⁴⁸ himself prettily⁴⁹ behind a wall of learned phraseology, but I fancied that he was notquite as sure about the case as he would like to be.

“There have been many curious occurrences of the kind,” he observed, when I had managedto disarm⁵⁰ him somewhat. “A sudden fit of anger, a violent emotion—after a heavy dinner, c’estentendu—then, with an access of rage, the blood flies to the head, and pst!—there you are!”

“But M.?Déroulard had had no violent emotion.”

“No? I made sure that he had been having a stormy altercation⁵¹ with M.?de Saint Alard.”

“Why should he?”

“C’est évident!?” The doctor shrugged⁵² his shoulders. “Was not M.?de Saint Alard a Catholicof the most fanatical? Their friendship was being ruined by this question of church and state. Not aday passed without discussions. To M.?de Saint Alard, Déroulard appeared almost as Antichrist.”

This was unexpected, and gave me food for thought.

“One more question, Doctor: would it be possible to introduce a fatal dose of poison into achocolate?”

“It would be possible, I suppose,” said the doctor slowly. “Pure prussic acid would meet thecase if there were no chance of evaporation⁵⁴, and a tiny globule of anything might be swallowedunnoticed — but it does not seem a very likely supposition. A chocolate full of morphine orstrychnine—” He made a wry⁵⁵ face. “You comprehend, M.?Poirot—one bite would be enough! Theunwary one would not stand upon ceremony.”

“Thank you, M.?le Docteur.”

I withdrew. Next I made inquiries⁵⁶ of the chemists, especially those in the neighbourhood ofthe Avenue Louise. It is good to be of the police. I got the information I wanted without anytrouble. Only in one case could I hear of any poison having been supplied to the house in question.

This was some eye drops of atropine sulphate for Madame Déroulard. Atropine is a potent⁵⁷ poison,and for the moment I was elated, but the symptoms of atropine poisoning are closely allied⁵⁸ tothose of ptomaine, and bear no resemblance to those I was studying. Besides, the prescription⁵⁹ wasan old one. Madame Déroulard had suffered from cataracts⁶⁰ in both eyes for many years.

I was turning away discouraged when the chemist’s voice called me back.

“Un moment, M.?Poirot. I remember, the girl who brought that prescription, she saidsomething about having to go on to the English chemist. You might try there.”

I did. Once more enforcing my official status, I got the information I wanted. On the daybefore M.?Déroulard’s death they had made up a prescription for Mr.?John Wilson. Not that therewas any making up about it. They were simply little tablets of trinitrine. I asked if I might seesome. He showed me them, and my heart beat faster—for the tiny tablets were of chocolate.

“Is it a poison?” I asked.

“No, monsieur.”

“Can you describe to me its effect?”

“It lowers the blood pressure. It is given for some forms of heart trouble—angina pectoris forinstance. It relieves the arterial tension. In arteriosclerosis—”

I interrupted him. “Ma foi! This rigmarole says nothing to me. Does it cause the face toflush?”

“Certainly it does.”

“And supposing I ate ten—twenty of your little tablets, what then?”

“I should not advise you to attempt it,” he replied drily.

“And yet you say it is not poison?”

“There are many things not called poison which can kill a man,” he replied as before.

I left the shop elated. At last, things had begun to march!

I now knew that John Wilson had the means for the crime—but what about the motive⁶¹? Hehad come to Belgium on business, and had asked M.?Déroulard, whom he knew slightly, to puthim up. There was apparently⁶² no way in which Déroulard’s death could benefit him. Moreover, Idiscovered by inquiries in England that he had suffered for some years from that painful form ofheart disease known as angina. Therefore he had a genuine right to have those tablets in hispossession. Nevertheless, I was convinced that someone had gone to the chocolate box, openingthe full one first by mistake, and had abstracted the contents of the last chocolate, cramming⁶³ ininstead as many little trinitrine tablets as it would hold. The chocolates were large ones. Betweentwenty or thirty tablets, I felt sure, could have been inserted. But who had done this?

There were two guests in the house. John Wilson had the means. Saint Alard had the motive.

Remember, he was a fanatic⁵³, and there is no fanatic like a religious fanatic. Could he, by anymeans, have got hold of John Wilson’s trinitrine?

Another little idea came to me. Ah, you smile at my little ideas! Why had Wilson run out oftrinitrine? Surely he would bring an adequate supply from England. I called once more at thehouse in the Avenue Louise. Wilson was out, but I saw the girl who did his room, Félice. Idemanded of her immediately whether it was not true that M.?Wilson had lost a bottle from hiswashstand some little time ago. The girl responded eagerly. It was quite true. She, Félice, had beenblamed for it. The English gentleman had evidently thought that she had broken it, and did not liketo say so. Whereas she had never even touched it. Without doubt it was Jeannette—always nosinground where she had no business to be—

I calmed the flow of words, and took my leave. I knew now all that I wanted to know. Itremained for me to prove my case. That, I felt, would not be easy. I might be sure that Saint Alardhad removed the bottle of trinitrine from John Wilson’s washstand, but to convince others, I wouldhave to produce evidence. And I had none to produce!

Never mind. I knew—that was the great thing. You remember our difficulty in the Stylescase, Hastings? There again, I knew—but it took me a long time to find the last link which mademy chain of evidence against the murderer complete.

I asked for an interview with Mademoiselle Mesnard. She came at once. I demanded of herthe address of M.?de Saint Alard. A look of trouble came over her face.

“Why do you want it, monsieur?”

“Mademoiselle, it is necessary.”

She seemed doubtful—troubled.

“He can tell you nothing. He is a man whose thoughts are not in this world. He hardly noticeswhat goes on around him.”

“Possibly, mademoiselle. Nevertheless, he was an old friend of M.?Déroulard’s. There maybe things he can tell me—things of the past—old grudges—old love-affairs.”

The girl flushed and bit her lip. “As you please—but—but I feel sure now that I have beenmistaken. It was good of you to accede⁶⁴ to my demand, but I was upset—almost distraught at thetime. I see now that there is no mystery to solve. Leave it, I beg of you, monsieur.”

I eyed her closely.

“Mademoiselle,” I said, “it is sometimes difficult for a dog to find a scent⁶⁵, but once he hasfound it, nothing on earth will make him leave it! That is if he is a good dog! And I, mademoiselle,I, Hercule Poirot, am a very good dog.”

Without a word she turned away. A few minutes later she returned with the address writtenon a sheet of paper. I left the house. Fran?ois was waiting for me outside. He looked at meanxiously.

“There is no news, monsieur?”

“None as yet, my friend.”

“Ah! Pauvre Monsieur Déroulard!” he sighed. “I too was of his way of thinking. I do not carefor priests. Not that I would say so in the house. The women are all devout—a good thing perhaps.

Madame est très pieuse—et Mademoiselle Virginie aussi.”

Mademoiselle Virginie? Was she “très pieuse?” Thinking of the tear-stained passionate⁴⁶ face Ihad seen that first day, I wondered.

Having obtained the address of M.?de Saint Alard, I wasted no time. I arrived in theneighbourhood of his ch?teau in the Ardennes but it was some days before I could find a pretextfor gaining admission to the house. In the end I did—how do you think—as a plumber⁶⁶, mon ami!

It was the affair of a moment to arrange a neat little gas leak in his bedroom. I departed for mytools, and took care to return with them at an hour when I knew I should have the field pretty wellto myself. What I was searching for, I hardly knew. The one thing needful, I could not believethere was any chance of finding. He would never have run the risk of keeping it.

Still when I found the little cupboard above the washstand locked, I could not resist thetemptation of seeing what was inside it. The lock was quite a simple one to pick. The door swungopen. It was full of old bottles. I took them up one by one with a trembling hand. Suddenly, Iuttered a cry. Figure to yourself, my friend, I held in my hand a little phial with an Englishchemist’s label. On it were the words: “Trinitrine Tablets. One to be taken when required.

Mr.?John Wilson.”

I controlled my emotion, closed the cupboard, slipped the bottle into my pocket, andcontinued to repair the gas leak! One must be methodical. Then I left the ch?teau, and took trainfor my own country as soon as possible. I arrived in Brussels late that night. I was writing out areport for the préfet in the morning, when a note was brought to me. It was from old MadameDéroulard, and it summoned me to the house in the Avenue Louise without delay.

Fran?ois opened the door to me.

“Madame la Baronne is awaiting you.”

He conducted me to her apartments. She sat in state in a large armchair. There was no sign ofMademoiselle Virginie.

“M.?Poirot,” said the old lady, “I have just learned that you are not what you pretend to be.

You are a police officer.”

“That is so, madame.”

“You came here to inquire into the circumstances of my son’s death?”

Again I replied: “That is so, madame.”

“I should be glad if you would tell me what progress you have made.”

I hesitated.

“First I would like to know how you have learned all this, madame.”

“From one who is no longer of this world.”

Her words, and the brooding way she uttered them, sent a chill to my heart. I was incapableof speech.

“Therefore, monsieur, I would beg of you most urgently to tell me exactly what progress youhave made in your investigation²⁰.”

“Madame, my investigation is finished.”

“My son?”

“Was killed deliberately⁶⁸.”

“You know by whom?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Who, then?”

“M.?de Saint Alard.”

“You are wrong. M.?de Saint Alard is incapable⁶⁷ of such a crime.”

“The proofs are in my hands.”

“I beg of you once more to tell me all.”

This time I obeyed, going over each step that had led me to the discovery of the truth. Shelistened attentively⁶⁹. At the end she nodded her head.

“Yes, yes, it is all as you say, all but one thing. It was not M.?de Saint Alard who killed myson. It was I, his mother.”

I stared at her. She continued to nod her head gently.

“It is well that I sent for you. It is the providence⁷⁰ of the good God that Virginie told mebefore she departed for the convent, what she had done. Listen, M.?Poirot! My son was an evilman. He persecuted⁷¹ the church. He led a life of mortal sin. He dragged down the other soulsbeside his own. But there was worse than that. As I came out of my room in this house onemorning, I saw my daughter-in-law standing at the head of the stairs. She was reading a letter. Isaw my son steal up behind her. One swift push, and she fell, striking her head on the marblesteps. When they picked her up she was dead. My son was a murderer, and only I, his mother,knew it.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “You cannot conceive, monsieur, of my agony, mydespair. What was I to do? Denounce him to the police? I could not bring myself to do it. It wasmy duty, but my flesh was weak. Besides, would they believe me? My eyesight had been failingfor some time—they would say I was mistaken. I kept silence. But my conscience gave me nopeace. By keeping silence I too was a murderer. My son inherited his wife’s money. He flourishedas the green bay tree. And now he was to have a Minister’s portfolio. His persecution⁷² of thechurch would be redoubled. And there was Virginie. She, poor child, beautiful, naturally pious,was fascinated by him. He had a strange and terrible power over women. I saw it coming. I waspowerless to prevent it. He had no intention of marrying her. The time came when she was readyto yield everything to him.

“Then I saw my path clear. He was my son. I had given him life. I was responsible for him.

He had killed one woman’s body, now he would kill another’s soul! I went to Mr.?Wilson’s room,and took the bottle of tablets. He had once said laughingly that there were enough in it to kill aman! I went into the study and opened the big box of chocolates that always stood on the table. Iopened a new box by mistake. The other was on the table also. There was just one chocolate left init. That simplified things. No one ate chocolates except my son and Virginie. I would keep herwith me that night. All went as I had planned—”

She paused, closing her eyes a minute then opened them again.

“M.?Poirot, I am in your hands. They tell me I have not many days to live. I am willing toanswer for my action before the good God. Must I answer for it on earth also?”

I hesitated. “But the empty bottle, madame,” I said to gain time. “How came that into M.?deSaint Alard’s possession?”

“When he came to say goodbye to me, monsieur, I slipped it into his pocket. I did not knowhow to get rid of it. I am so infirm that I cannot move about much without help, and finding itempty in my rooms might have caused suspicion. You understand, monsieur—” she drew herselfup to her full height—“it was with no idea of casting suspicion on M.?de Saint Alard! I neverdreamed of such a thing. I thought his valet would find an empty bottle and throw it away withoutquestion.”

I bowed my head. “I comprehend, madame,” I said.

“And your decision, monsieur?”

Her voice was firm and unfaltering, her head held as high as ever.

I rose to my feet.

“Madame,” I said, “I have the honour to wish you good day. I have made my investigations—and failed! The matter is closed.”

He was silent for a moment, then said quietly: “She died just a week later. MademoiselleVirginie passed through her novitiate, and duly took the veil. That, my friend, is the story. I mustadmit that I do not make a fine figure in it.”

“But that was hardly a failure,” I expostulated. “What else could you have thought under thecircumstances?”

“Ah, sacré, mon ami,” cried Poirot, becoming suddenly animated⁷³. “Is it that you do not see?

But I was thirty-six times an idiot! My grey cells, they functioned not at all. The whole time I hadthe clue in my hands.”

“What clue?”

“The chocolate box! Do you not see? Would anyone in possession of their full eyesight makesuch a mistake? I knew Madame Déroulard had cataracts—the atropine drops told me that. Therewas only one person in the household whose eyesight was such that she could not see which lid toreplace. It was the chocolate box that started me on the track, and yet up to the end I failedconsistently to perceive its real significance!

“Also my psychology⁷⁴ was at fault. Had M.?de Saint Alard been the criminal, he would neverhave kept an incriminating bottle. Finding it was a proof of his innocence⁷⁵. I had learned alreadyfrom Mademoiselle Virginie that he was absent-minded. Altogether it was a miserable⁷⁶ affair that Ihave recounted to you there! Only to you have I told the story. You comprehend, I do not figurewell in it! An old lady commits a crime in such a simple and clever fashion that I, Hercule Poirot,am completely deceived. Sapristi! It does not bear thinking of! Forget it. Or no—remember it, andif you think at any time that I am growing conceited—it is not likely, but it might arise.”

I concealed⁷⁷ a smile.

“Eh bien, my friend, you shall say to me, ‘Chocolate box.’ Is it agreed?”

“It’s a bargain!”

“After all,” said Poirot reflectively, “it was an experience! I, who have undoubtedly the finestbrain in Europe at present, can afford to be magnanimous!”

“Chocolate box,” I murmured gently.

“Pardon, mon ami??”

I looked at Poirot’s innocent face, as he bent⁷⁸ forward inquiringly, and my heart smote⁷⁹ me. Ihad suffered often at his hands, but I, too, though not possessing the finest brain in Europe, couldafford to be magnanimous!

“Nothing,” I lied, and lit another pipe, smiling to myself.

 

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