"A man," said Poirot, "possessed of vast stores of knowledge.
A remarkable man.
That man knew many secrets."
"I suppose he did," she murmured, passing a tongue over her dry lips.
Poirot leaned forward.
He achieved a little tap on her knee.
"He knew, for instance, that your husband did not die of fever."
She stared at him.
Her eyes looked wild and desperate.
He leaned back and watched the effect of his words.
She pulled herself together with an effort.
"I don't - I don't know what you mean." It was very unconvincingly said.
"Madame," said Poirot, "I will come out into the open. I will," he smiled, "place my cards upon the table.
Your husband did not die of a fever.
He died of a bullet!"
"Oh!" she cried.
She covered her face with her hands. She rocked herself to and fro.
She was in terrible distress.
But somewhere, in some remote fiber of her being, she was enjoying her own emotions.
Poirot was quite sure of that.
"And therefore," said Poirot in a matter-of-fact tone, "you might just as well tell me the whole story."
She uncovered her face and said, "It wasn't in the least the way you think."
Again Poirot leaned forward; again he tapped her knee.
"You misunderstand me; you misunderstand me utterly," he said. "I know very well that it was not you who shot him.
It was Major Despard.
But you were the cause."
"I don't know. I don't know.
I suppose I was.
It was all too terrible.
There is a sort of fatality that pursues me."
"Ah, how true that is," cried Poirot. "How often have I not seen it?
There are some women like that.
Wherever they go, tragedies follow in their wake.
It is not their fault.
These things happen in spite of themselves."
Mrs. Luxmore drew a deep breath.
"You understand.
I see you understand.
It all happened so naturally."
"You traveled together into the interior, did you not?"
"Yes.
My husband was writing a book on various rare plants.
Major Despard was introduced to us as a man who knew the conditions and would arrange the necessary expedition.
My husband liked him very much.
We started."
There was a pause.
Poirot allowed it to continue for about a minute and a half and then murmured as though to himself,
"Yes, one can picture it.
The winding river - the tropical night - the hum or the insects - the strong soldierly man - the beautiful woman -"
Mrs. Luxmore sighed.