Edward Ferrier took a deep breath. For a moment Hercule Poirot came nearer to being physically assaulted than at any other time in his career. “My wife! You dared to use her—” Fortunately, perhaps, Mrs. Ferrier herself entered the room at this moment. “Well,” she said. “That went off very well.” “Dagmar, did you—know all along?” “Of course, dear,” said Dagmar Ferrier. And she smiled, the gentle, maternal smile of a devoted wife. “And you never told me!” “But, Edward, you would never have let M. Poirot do it.”
