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.

I don’t know what pos­sessed me. Her beauty, per­haps, as she sat there, with the sun­light glint­ing down on her head; per­haps the sense of re­lief at en­coun­ter­ing someone who so ob­vi­ously could have no con­nec­tion with the tragedy; per­haps hon­est pity for her youth and loneli­ness.

Blood tells—al­ways re­mem­ber that—blood tells.”

Con­vales­cent

Never­the­less

par­tic­u­larly

Con­vales­cent

“Well, that de­pends.”