My jaw dropped involuntarily, and he said at once: "No, mon ami, I am not in my second childhood! I steady my nerves, that is all. This employment requires precision of the fingers. With precision of the fingers goes precision of the brain. And never have I needed that more than now!"
"What is the trouble?" I asked.
With a great thump on the table, Poirot demolished his carefully built up edifice.
"It is this, mon ami! That I can build card houses seven stories high, but I cannot"--thump--"find"--thump--"that last link of which I spoke to you."
I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my peace, and he began slowly building up the cards again, speaking in jerks as he did so.
"It is done--so! By placing--one card--on another--with mathematical--precision!"
I watched the card house rising under his hands, story by story. He never hesitated or faltered. It was really almost like a conjuring trick.
"What a steady hand you've got," I remarked. "I believe I've only seen your hand shake once."
"On an occasion when I was enraged, without doubt," observed Poirot, with great placidity.
"Yes indeed! You were in a towering rage. Do you remember? It was when you discovered that the lock of the despatch-case in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom had been forced. You stood by the mantel-piece, twiddling the things on it in your usual fashion, and your hand shook like a leaf! I must say----"
But I stopped suddenly. For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards, and putting his hands over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the keenest agony.
"Good heavens, Poirot!" I cried. "What is the matter? Are you taken ill?"
"No, no," he gasped. "It is--it is--that I have an idea!"
"Oh!" I exclaimed, much relieved. "One of your 'little ideas'?"
"Ah, ma foi, no!" replied Poirot frankly. "This time it is an idea gigantic! Stupendous! And you--you, my friend, have given it to me!"
Suddenly clasping me in his arms, he kissed me warmly on both cheeks, and before I had recovered from my surprise ran headlong from the room.
Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.
"What is the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out: 'A garage! For the love of Heaven, direct me to a garage, madame!' And, before I could answer, he had dashed out into the street."