"Not when the servant Dorcas repeated certain fragments of the conversation--fragments which you must have recognized?"
"I did not recognize them."
"Your memory must be unusually short!"
"No, but we were both angry, and, I think, said more than we meant. I paid very little attention to my mother's actual words."
Mr. Philips' incredulous sniff was a triumph of forensic skill. He passed on to the subject of the note.
"You have produced this note very opportunely. Tell me, is there nothing familiar about the hand-writing of it?"
"Not that I know of."
"Do you not think that it bears a marked resemblance to your own hand-writing--carelessly disguised?"
"No, I do not think so."
"I put it to you that it is your own hand-writing!"
"No."
"I put it to you that, anxious to prove an alibi, you conceived the idea of a fictitious and rather incredible appointment, and wrote this note yourself in order to bear out your statement!"
"No."
"Is it not a fact that, at the time you claim to have been waiting about at a solitary and unfrequented spot, you were really in the chemist's shop in Styles St. Mary, where you purchased strychnine in the name of Alfred Inglethorp?"
"No, that is a lie."
"I put it to you that, wearing a suit of Mr. Inglethorp's clothes, with a black beard trimmed to resemble his, you were there--and signed the register in his name!"
"That is absolutely untrue."
"Then I will leave the remarkable similarity of hand-writing between the note, the register, and your own, to the consideration of the jury," said Mr. Philips, and sat down with the air of a man who has done his duty, but who was nevertheless horrified by such deliberate perjury.
After this, as it was growing late, the case was adjourned till Monday.
Poirot, I noticed, was looking profoundly discouraged. He had that little frown between the eyes that I knew so well.
"What is it, Poirot?" I inquired.
"Ah, mon ami, things are going badly, badly."
In spite of myself, my heart gave a leap of relief. Evidently there was a likelihood of John Cavendish being acquitted.
When we reached the house, my little friend waved aside Mary's offer of tea.
"No, I thank you, madame. I will mount to my room."
I followed him. Still frowning, he went across to the desk and took out a small pack of patience cards. Then he drew up a chair to the table, and, to my utter amazement, began solemnly to build card houses!