The Mysterious Affair at Styles

Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master.

Nevertheless, in view of the world-wide notoriety which attended it, I have been asked, both by my friend Poirot and the family themselves, to write an account of the whole story. This, we trust, will effectually silence the sensational rumours which still persist.
I will therefore briefly set down the circumstances which led to my being connected with the affair.

We had a good yarn about old times, and it ended in his inviting me down to Styles to spend my leave there.

Lawrence blushed, and then smiled awkwardly. A man in love is a sorry spectacle. Now Cynthia had looked charming.

The colossal cheek of the little man! Who on earth but Poirot would have thought of a trial for murder as a restorer of conjugal happiness!

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

“That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame” - she started ever so slightly - “remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service.”

Still, it's rather horrid when no one loves you, isn't it?”

“You see,” he said sadly, “ you have no instincts.”

“It was intelligence you were requiring just now,” I pointed out.

“The two often go together,” said Poirot enigmatically.

“There,” said Poirot, looking after her, “goes a very valuable ally. That woman, Hastings, has got brains as well as a heart.”

I did not reply.