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?â€
“No, no,†he gasped. “It is — it is — that I have an idea!â€
Agatha Christie