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“
Absolutely
.
The
real
work
,
that
of
the
brain
(
ah
,
those
brave
little
grey
cells
)
,
it
is
done
.
I
go
to
seek
the
confirmation
.
I
shall
find
it
!
Impossible
to
deceive
Hercule
Poirot
!
”
“
You
’
ll
come
a
cropper
one
of
these
days
,
”
I
observed
,
rather
disgusted
by
his
vanity
.
“
Do
not
be
enraged
,
I
beg
of
you
,
mon
ami
.
I
count
on
you
to
do
me
a
service
—
of
your
friendship
.
”
“
Of
course
,
”
I
said
eagerly
,
rather
ashamed
of
my
moroseness
.
“
What
is
it
?
”
“
The
sleeve
of
my
coat
that
I
have
taken
off
—
will
you
brush
it
?
See
you
,
a
little
white
powder
has
clung
to
it
.
You
without
doubt
observed
me
run
my
finger
round
the
drawer
of
the
dressing
-
table
?
”
“
No
,
I
didn
’
t
.
”
“
You
should
observe
my
actions
,
my
friend
.
Thus
I
obtained
the
powder
on
my
finger
,
and
,
being
a
little
over
-
excited
,
I
rubbed
it
on
my
sleeve
;
an
action
without
method
which
I
deplore
—
false
to
all
my
principles
.
”
“
But
what
was
the
powder
?
”
I
asked
,
not
particularly
interested
in
Poirot
’
s
principles
.
“
Not
the
poison
of
the
Borgias
,
”
replied
Poirot
,
with
a
twinkle
.
“
I
see
your
imagination
mounting
.
I
should
say
it
was
French
chalk
.
”
