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Chapter 11. The Case for the Prosecution.

The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later.

Of the intervening weeks, I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out to Mary Cavendish.

She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, squarring the mere idea of his guilt and fought for him tooth and nail.

I express my admiration to Poirot and he nodded boughfully.

Yes, she is of those women who show at their best an adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have...

...Gelicy, I queried. Yes, have you not realized that she's an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband and the terrible fate that's hanging over him.

He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak.

With his tenderness for a woman's happiness, I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands.

Even now I said I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence.

Poirot grinned. I know you did. But John, my old friend John.

Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend, observed Poirot philosophically. You cannot mix up sentiment and reason.

I must say, I think you might have given me a hint. Perhaps monomy, I did not do so just because he was your old friend.

I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I'd busily passed on to John, what I believed be Poirot's views concerning Bauerstein.

He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him. Nevertheless, although he had been to clever for them this time, and the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings were pretty well clipped for the future.

I asked Poirot whether he thought John would be condemned. To my intense surprise, he replied that on the contrary he was extremely likely to be acquitted.

But Poirot, I protested.

Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all long that I have no proofs? It is one thing to know that a man is guilty. It is quite another matter to prove him so.

And in this case, there is terribly little evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, aircue Poirot, no, but I lacked the last link in my chain.

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