I had an idea there…It ought to be true—it must be true. But if so—’ He was silent for some time. I did not like to interrupt him. As a matter of fact, I believe I fell asleep. I woke to find Poirot’s hand on my shoulder. ‘Mon cher Hastings,’ he said affectionately. ‘My good genius.’ I was quite confused by this sudden mark of esteem. ‘It is true,’ Poirot insisted. ‘Always—always—you help me—you bring me luck. You inspire me.’ ‘How have I inspired you this time?’ I asked. ‘While I was asking myself certain questions I remembered a remark of yours—a remark absolutely shimmering in its clear
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