I perceived your manipulations with the sleeping tablets. I realized what your idea was.

And so, my friend, I acted. I went back to my room. I made my preparations. When Curtiss came up, I sent him to fetch you. You came, yawning and explaining that you had a headache. I made at once the big fuss — urged remedies on you. For the sake of peace you consented to drink a cup of chocolate. You gulped it down quickly so as to get away quicker. But I, too, my friend, have some sleeping tablets.

And so, you slept — slept until morning, when you awoke your own sane self and were horrified at what you had so nearly done.

You were safe now — one does not attempt these things twice — not when one has relapsed into sanity.

But it decided me, Hastings! For whatever I might not know about other people did not apply to you. You are not a murderer, Hastings! But you might have been hanged for one — for a murder committed by another man who in the eyes of the law would be guiltless.

You, my good, my honest, my oh-so-honourable Hastings — so kindly, so conscientious — so innocent!

Yes, I must act. I knew that my time was short — and for that I was glad. For the worst part of murder, Hastings, is its effect on the murderer. I, Hercule Poirot, might come to believe myself divinely appointed to deal out death to all and sundry

... But mercifully, there would not be time for that to happen. The end would come soon. And I was afraid that Norton might succeed with someone who was unutterably dear to us both. I am talking of your daughter ... And now we come to the death of Barbara Franklin. Whatever your ideas may be on the subject, Hastings, I do not think you have once suspected the truth. For you see, Hastings, you killed Barbara Franklin.

Mais oui, you did!

There was, you see, yet another angle to the triangle. One that I did not fully take into account. As it happened, Norton's tactics there were unseen and unheard by either of us. But I have no doubt that he employed them ...

Did it ever enter your mind to wonder, Hastings, why Mrs. Franklin was willing to come to Styles? It is not, when you think of it, at all her line of country. She likes comfort, good food and above all social contacts. Styles is not gay — it is not well run — it is in the dead country. And yet it was Mrs. Franklin who insisted on spending the summer there.

Yes, there was a third angle — Boyd Carrington. Mrs. Franklin was a disappointed woman. That was at the root of her neurotic illness. She was ambitious both socially and financially. She married Franklin because she expected him to have a brilliant career.

He was brilliant, but not in her way. His brilliance would never bring him newspaper notoriety or a Harley Street reputation. He would be known to half a dozen men of his own profession and would publish articles in learned journals. The outside world would not hear of him — and he would certainly not make money. And here is Boyd Carrington — home from the East — just come into a baronetcy and money, and Boyd Carrington has always felt tenderly sentimental towards the pretty seventeen-year-old girl he nearly asked to marry him. He is going to Styles, he suggests the Franklins come too — and Barbara comes.