Peril at End House – Agatha Christie 3/213 | Previous page | Next page |

Peril at End House – Agatha Christie


‘Must be a fine fellow. That sort of thing makes one feel it’s a good thing to be an Englishman after all.’

‘It consoles for the defeats at Wimbledon,’ said Poirot.

‘I-I didn’t mean,’ I began.

My friend waved my attempted apology aside gracefully.

‘Me,’ he announced. ‘I am not amphibian, like the machine of the poor Captain Seton, but I am cosmopolitan. And for the English I have always had, as you know, a great admiration. The thorough way, for instance, in which they read the daily paper.’

My attention had strayed to political news.

‘They seem to be giving the Home Secretary a pretty bad time of it,’ I remarked with a chuckle.

‘The poor man. He has his troubles, that one. Ah! yes. So much so that he seeks for help in the most improbable quarters.’

I stared at him.

With a slight smile, Poirot drew from his pocket his morning’s correspondence, neatly secured by a rubber band. From this he selected one letter which he tossed across to me.

‘It must have missed us yesterday,’ he said.

I read the letter with a pleasurable feeling of excitement.

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