“Poirot's eyes opened. "That is great ferocity," he said."It is a woman," said the chef de train, speaking for the first time. "Depend upon it, it was a woman. Only a woman would stab like that."Dr. Constantine screwed up his face thoughtfully. "She must have been a very strong woman," he said. "It is not my desire to speak technically-that is only confusing; but I can assure you that two of the blows were delivered with such forces as to drive them through hard belts of bone and muscle.""It was clearly not a scientific crime," said Poirot."It was most unscientific," returned Dr. Constantine."The blows seem to have been delivered haphazard and at random. Some have glanced off, doing hardly any damage. It is as though somebody had shut his eyes and then in a frenzy struck blindly again and again.""C'est une femme," said the chef de train again. "Women are like that. When they are enraged they have great strength." He nodded so sagely that everyone suspected a personal experience of his own.”

“About Miss Debenham," he said rather awkwardly. "You can take it from me that she's all right. She's a pukka sahib."What," asked Dr. Constantine with interest, "does a pukka sahib mean?""It means," said Poirot, "that Miss Debenham's father and brothers were at the same kind of school as Colonel Arbuthnot was.""Oh!" said Dr. Constantine, disappointed. "Then it has nothing to do with the crime at all.""Exactly," said Poirot.”

“Poirot," I said. "I have been thinking.""An admirable exercise my friend. Continue it.”

“He dragged me back - just in time. A tree had crashed down on to the side walk, just missing us. Poirot stared at it, pale and upset. "It was a near thing that! But clumsy, all the same - for I had no suspicion - at least hardly any suspicion. Yes, but for my quick eyes, the eyes of a cat, Hercule Poirot might now be crushed out of existence - a terrible calamity for the world. And you, too, mon ami - though that would not be such a national catastrophe." "Thank you," I said coldly.”

“I like to see an angry Englishman," said Poirot. "They are very amusing. The more emotional they feel the less command they have of language.”

“As you yourself have said, what other explanation can there be?'Poirot stared straight ahead of him. 'That is what I ask myself,' he said. 'That is what I never cease to ask myself.”

“I suppose next time I come home I shall find you wearing false moustaches—or are you doing so now?' Poirot winced. His moustaches had always been his sensitive point. He was inordinately proud of them. My words touched him on the raw. 'No, no, indeed, mon ami. That day, I pray the good God, is still far off. The false moustaches! Quelle Horreur!’ He tugged at them vigorously to assure me of their genuine character. 'Well, they are very luxuriant still,' I said. 'N’est-ce pas? Never, in the whole of London, have I seen a pair of moustaches to equal mine.' A good job too, I thought privately.”