MRS. INGLETHORPE'S BEDROOM

making any noise. Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his attention. He examined it carefully, and then, nimbly whipping out a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out some minute particle which he carefully sealed up in a tiny envelope.

On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a spirit lamp and a small saucepan on it. A small quantity of a dark fluid remained in the saucepan, and an empty cup and saucer that had been drunk out of stood near it.

I wondered how I could have been so unobservant as to overlook this. Here was a clue worth having. Poirot delicately dipped his finger into liquid, and tasted it gingerly. He made a grimace.

``Coco -- with -- I think -- rum in it.''

He passed on to the debris on the floor, where the table by the bed had been overturned. A reading-lamp, some books, matches, a bunch of keys, and the crushed fragments of a coffee-cup lay scattered about.

``Ah, this is curious,'' said Poirot.

``I must confess that I see nothing particularly curious about it.''

``You do not? Observe the lamp -- the chimney is broken in two places; they lie there as they fell. But see, the coffee-cup is absolutely smashed to powder.''

``Well,'' I said wearily, ``I suppose some one must have stepped on it.''

``Exactly,'' said Poirot, in an odd voice. ``Some one stepped on it.''

He rose from his knees, and walked slowly across to the mantelpiece, where he stood abstractedly fingering the ornaments, and straightening them -- a trick of his when he was agitated.

``Mon ami,'' he said, turning to me, ``somebody stepped on that cup, grinding it to powder, and the reason they did so was either because it contained strychnine or -- which is far more serious -- because it did not contain strychnine!''

I made no reply. I was bewildered, but I knew that it was no good asking him to explain. In a moment or two he roused himself, and went on with his investigations. He picked up the bunch of keys from the floor, and twirling them round in his fingers finally selected one, very bright and shining, which he tried in the lock of the purple despatch-case. It fitted, and he opened the box, but after a moment's hesitation, closed and relocked it, and slipped the bunch of keys, as well as the key that had originally stood in the lock, into his own pocket.

``I have no authority to go through these papers. But it should be done -- at once!''

He then made a very careful examination of the drawers of the wash-stand. Crossing the room to the left-hand window, a round stain, hardly visible on the dark brown carpet, seemed to interest him particularly. He went down on his knees, examining it minutely -- even going so far as to smell it.

Finally, he poured a few drops of the coco into a test tube, sealing it up carefully. His next proceeding was to take out a little notebook.

``We have found in this room,'' he said, writing busily, ``six points of interest. Shall I enumerate them, or will you?''

``Oh, you,'' I replied hastily.

``Very well, then. One, a coffee-cup that has been ground into powder; two, a despatch-case with a key in the lock; three, a stain on the floor.''

``That may have been done some time ago,'' I interrupted.

``No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric -- only a thread or two, but recognizable.''

``Ah!'' I cried. ``That was what you sealed up in the envelope.''

``Yes. It may turn out to be a piece of one of Mrs. Inglethorp's own dresses, and quite unimportant. We shall see. Five, this! '' With a dramatic gesture, he pointed to a large splash of candle grease on the floor by the writing-table. ``It must have been done since yesterday, otherwise a good housemaid would have at once removed it with blotting-paper and a hot iron. One of my best hats once -- but that is not to the point.''

``It was very likely done last night. We were very agitated. Or perhaps Mrs. Inglethorp herself dropped her candle.''

``You brought only one candle into the room?''

``Yes. Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he was very upset. He seemed to see something over here'' -- I indicated the mantelpiece -- ``that absolutely paralysed him.''

``That is interesting,'' said Poirot quickly. ``Yes, it is suggestive'' -- his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall -- ``but it was not his candle that made this great patch, for you perceive that this is white grease; whereas Monsieur Lawrence's candle, which is still on the dressing-table, is pink. On the other hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had no candlestick in the room, only a reading-lamp.''

``Then,'' I said, ``what do you deduce?''

To which my friend only made a rather irritating reply, urging me to use my own natural faculties.

``And the sixth point?'' I asked. ``I suppose it is the sample of coco.''

``No,'' said Poirot thoughtfully. ``I might have included that in the six, but I did not. No, the sixth point I will keep to myself for the present.''

He looked quickly round the room. ``There is nothing more to be done here, I think, unless'' -- he stared earnestly and long at the dead ashes in the grate. ``The fire burns -- and it destroys. But by chance -- there might be -- let us see!''

Deftly, on hands and knees, he began to sort the ashes from the grate into the fender, handling them with the greatest caution. Suddenly, he gave a faint exclamation.

``The forceps, Hastings!''

I quickly handed them to him, and with skill he extracted a small piece of half charred paper.

``There, mon ami!'' he cried. ``What do you think of that?''

I scrutinized the fragment. This is an exact reproduction of it: --

I was puzzled. It was unusually thick, quite unlike ordinary notepaper. Suddenly an idea struck me.

``Poirot!'' I cried. ``This is a fragment of a will!''

``Exactly.''

I looked up at him sharply.

``You are not surprised?''

``No,'' he said gravely, ``I expected it.''

I relinquished the piece of paper, and watched him put it away in his case, with the same methodical care that he bestowed on everything. My brain was in a whirl. What was this complication of a will? Who had destroyed it? The person who had left the candle grease on the floor? Obviously. But how had anyone gained admission? All the doors had been bolted on the inside.

``Now, my friend,'' said Poirot briskly, ``we will go. I should like to ask a few questions of the parlourmaid -- Dorcas, her name is, is it not?''

We passed through Alfred Inglethorp's room, and Poirot delayed long enough to make a brief but fairly comprehensive examination of it. We went out through that door, locking both it and that of Mrs. Inglethorp's room as before.

I took him down to the boudoir which he had expressed a wish to see, and went myself in search of Dorcas.

When I returned with her, however, the boudoir was empty.

``Poirot,'' I cried, ``where are you?''

``I am here, my friend.''

He had stepped outside the French window, and was standing, apparently lost in admiration, before the various shaped flower beds.

`Admirable!'' he murmured. ``Admirable! What symmetry! Observe that crescent; and those diamonds -- their neatness rejoices the eye. The spacing of the plants, also, is perfect. It has been recently done; is it not so?''

``Yes, I believe they were at it yesterday afternoon. But come in -- Dorcas is here.''

``Eh bien, eh bien! Do not grudge me a moment's satisfaction of the eye.''

``Yes, but this affair is more important.''

``And how do you know that these fine begonias are not of equal importance?''

I shrugged my shoulders. There was really no arguing with him if he chose to take that line.

``You do not agree? But such things have been. Well, we will come in and interview the brave Dorcas.''

Dorcas was standing in the boudoir, her hands folded in front of her, and her grey hair rose in stiff waves under her white cap. She was the very model and picture of a good old-fashioned servant.

In her attitude towards Poirot, she was inclined to be suspicious, but he soon broke down her defences. He drew forward a chair.

``Pray be seated, mademoiselle.''

``Thank you, sir.''

``You have been with your mistress many years, is it not so?''

``Ten years, sir.''

``That is a long time, and very faithful service. You were much attached to her, were you not?''

``She was a very good mistress to me, sir.''

``Then you will not object to answering a few questions. I put them to you with Mr. Cavendish's full approval.''

``Oh, certainly, sir.''

``Then I will begin by asking you about the events of yesterday afternoon. Your mistress had a quarrel?''

``Yes, sir. But I don't know that I ought -- -- '' Dorcas hesitated. Poirot looked at her keenly.

``My good Dorcas, it is necessary that I should know every detail of that quarrel as fully as possible. Do not think that you are betraying your mistress's secrets. Your mistress lies dead, and it is necessary that we should know all -- if we are to avenge her. Nothing can bring her back to life, but we do hope, if there has been foul play, to bring the murderer to justice.''

``Amen to that,'' said Dorcas fiercely. ``And, naming no names, there's one in this house that none of us could ever abide! And an ill day it was when first he darkened the threshold.''

Poirot waited for her indignation to subside, and then, resuming his business-like tone, he asked:

``Now, as to this quarrel? What is the first you heard of it?''

``Well, sir, I happened to be going along the hall outside yesterday -- -- ''

``What time was that?''

``I couldn't say exactly, sir, but it wasn't tea-time by a long way. Perhaps four o'clock -- or it may have been a bit later. Well, sir, as I said, I happened to be passing along, when I heard voices very loud and angry in here. I didn't exactly mean to listen, but -- well, there it is. I stopped. The door was shut, but the mistress was speaking very sharp and clear, and I heard what she said quite plainly. `You have lied to me, and deceived me,' she said. I didn't hear what Mr. Inglethorp replied. He spoke a good bit lower than she did -- but she answered: `How dare you? I have kept you and clothed you and fed you! You owe everything to me! And this is how you repay me! By bringing disgrace upon our name!' Again I didn't hear what he said, but she went on: `Nothing that you can say will make any difference. I see my duty clearly. My mind is made up. You need not think that any fear of publicity, or scandal between husband and wife will deter me.' Then I thought I heard them coming out, so I went off quickly.''

``You are sure it was Mr. Inglethorp's voice you heard?''

``Oh, yes, sir, whose else's could it be?''

``Well, what happened next?''

``Later, I came back to the hall; but it was all quiet. At five o'clock, Mrs. Inglethorp rang the bell and told me to bring her a cup of tea -- nothing to eat -- to the boudoir. She was looking dreadful -- so white and upset. `Dorcas,' she says, `I've had a great shock.' `I'm sorry for that, m'm,' I says. `You'll feel better after a nice hot cup of tea, m'm.' She had something in her hand. I don't know if it was a letter, or just a piece of paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring at it, almost as if she couldn't believe what was written there. She whispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there: `These few words -- and everything's changed.' And then she says to me: `Never trust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' I hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it. `I don't know what to do,' she says. `Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.' Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more.''

``She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?'' ``Yes, sir.''

``What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?''

``Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers.''

``Is that where she usually kept important papers?''

``Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night.''

``When did she lose the key of it?''

``She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it.''

``But she had a duplicate key?''

``Oh, yes, sir.''

Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled.

``Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?'' He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs.

Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head.

``That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it.''

``Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?''

Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question.

``No, sir.''

``Are you quite sure?''

``Oh, yes, sir.''

``Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?''

Dorcas reflected.

``Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress.''

``Light or dark green?''

``A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it.''

``Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?''

``No, sir -- not that I know of.''

Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked:

``Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?''

``Not last night, sir, I know she didn't.''

``Why do you know so positively?''

``Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up.''

``You are quite sure of that?''

``Positive, sir.''

``Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?''

``To sign a paper? No, sir.''

``When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?''

``I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things.''

Poirot lifted his hand.

``Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them.''

``Very well, sir.''

``What time did you go out last evening?''

``About six o'clock, sir.''

``Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you.'' He rose and strolled to the window. ``I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?''

``Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!''

``The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?''

``Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.''

``How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?'' I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. ``And about the lost key and the duplicate?''

``One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this.'' He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders.

``Where did you find it?''

``In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue.''

``But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?''

``Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about this box?''

I examined it closely.

``No, I can't say that I do.''

``Look at the label.''

I read the label carefully: `` `One powder to be taken at bedtime, if required. Mrs. Inglethorp.' No, I see nothing unusual.''

``Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?''

``Ah!'' I exclaimed. ``To be sure, that is odd!''

``Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that, without his printed name?''

``No, I can't say that I have.''

I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour by remarking:

``Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not intrigue yourself, my friend.''

An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no time to reply.

Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring under intense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of the tragedy.

Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness.

``I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able to tell me something about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last night. How many were there? And can you tell me any of the names and addresses?''

Annie considered.

``There were four letters, sir. One was to Miss Howard, and one was to Mr. Wells, the lawyer, and the other two I don't think I remember, sir -- oh, yes, one was to Ross's, the caterers in Tadminster. The other one, I don't remember.''

``Think,'' urged Poirot.

Annie racked her brains in vain.

``I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it.''

``It does not matter,'' said Poirot, not betraying any sign of disappointment. ``Now I want to ask you about something else. There is a saucepan in Mrs. Inglethorp's room with some coco in it. Did she have that every night?''

`Yes, sir, it was put in her room every evening, and she warmed it up in the night -- whenever she fancied it.''

``What was it? Plain coco?''

``Yes, sir, made with milk, with a teaspoonful of sugar, and two teaspoonfuls of rum in it.''

``Who took it to her room?''

``I did, sir.''

``Always?''

``Yes, sir.''

``At what time?''

``When I went to draw the curtains, as a rule, sir.''

``Did you bring it straight up from the kitchen then?''

``No, sir, you see there's not much room on the gas stove, so Cook used to make it early, before putting the vegetables on for supper. Then I used to bring it up, and put it on the table by the swing door, and take it into her room later.''

``The swing door is in the left wing, is it not?''

``Yes, sir.''

``And the table, is it on this side of the door, or on the farther -- servants' side?''

``It's this side, sir.''

``What time did you bring it up last night?''

``About quarter-past seven, I should say, sir.''

``And when did you take it into Mrs. Inglethorp's room?''

``When I went to shut up, sir. About eight o'clock. Mrs. Inglethorp came up to bed before I'd finished.''

``Then, between 7.15 and 8 o'clock, the coco was standing on the table in the left wing?''

``Yes, sir.'' Annie had been growing redder and redder in the face, and now she blurted out unexpectedly:

``And if there was salt in it, sir, it wasn't me. I never took the salt near it.''

``What makes you think there was salt in it?'' asked Poirot.

``Seeing it on the tray, sir.''

``You saw some salt on the tray?''

``Yes. Coarse kitchen salt, it looked. I never noticed it when I took the tray up, but when I came to take it into the mistress's room I saw it at once, and I suppose I ought to have taken it down again, and asked Cook to make some fresh. But I was in a hurry, because Dorcas was out, and I thought maybe the coco itself was all right, and the salt had only gone on the tray. So I dusted it off with my apron, and took it in.''

I had the utmost difficulty in controlling my excitement. Unknown to herself, Annie had provided us with an important piece of evidence. How she would have gaped if she had realized that her ``coarse kitchen salt'' was strychnine, one of the most deadly poisons known to mankind. I marvelled at Poirot's calm. His self-control was astonishing. I awaited his next question with impatience, but it disappointed me.

``When you went into Mrs. Inglethorp's room, was the door leading into Miss Cynthia's room bolted?''

``Oh! Yes, sir; it always was. It had never been opened.''

``And the door into Mr. Inglethorp's room? Did you notice if that was bolted too?''

Annie hesitated.

``I couldn't rightly say, sir; it was shut but I couldn't say whether it was bolted or not.''

``When you finally left the room, did Mrs. Inglethorp bolt the door after you?''

No, sir, not then, but I expect she did later. She usually did lock it at night. The door into the passage, that is.''

``Did you notice any candle grease on the floor when you did the room yesterday?''

``Candle grease? Oh, no, sir. Mrs. Inglethorp didn't have a candle, only a reading-lamp.''

``Then, if there had been a large patch of candle grease on the floor, you think you would have been sure to have seen it?''

``Yes, sir, and I would have taken it out with a piece of blotting-paper and a hot iron.''

Then Poirot repeated the question he had put to Dorcas:

``Did your mistress ever have a green dress?''

``No, sir.''

``Nor a mantle, nor a cape, nor a -- how do you call it? -- a sports coat?''

``Not green, sir.''

``Nor anyone else in the house?''

Annie reflected.

``No, sir.''

``You are sure of that?''

``Quite sure.''

``Bien! That is all I want to know. Thank you very much.''

With a nervous giggle, Annie took herself creakingly out of the room. My pent-up excitement burst forth.

``Poirot,'' I cried, ``I congratulate you! This is a great discovery.''

``What is a great discovery?''

``Why, that it was the coco and not the coffee that was poisoned. That explains everything! Of course it did not take effect until the early morning, since the coco was only drunk in the middle of the night.''

``So you think that the coco -- mark well what I say, Hastings, the coco -- contained strychnine?''

``Of course! That salt on the tray, what else could it have been?''

``It might have been salt,'' replied Poirot placidly.

I shrugged my shoulders. If he was going to take the matter that way, it was no good arguing with him. The idea crossed my mind, not for the first time, that poor old Poirot was growing old. Privately I thought it lucky that he had associated with him some one of a more receptive type of mind.

Poirot was surveying me with quietly twinkling eyes.

``You are not pleased with me, mon ami?''

``My dear Poirot,'' I said coldly, ``it is not for me to dictate to you. You have a right to your own opinion, just as I have to mine.''

``A most admirable sentiment,'' remarked Poirot, rising briskly to his feet. ``Now I have finished with this room. By the way, whose is the smaller desk in the corner?''

``Mr. Inglethorp's.''

``Ah!'' He tried the roll top tentatively. ``Locked. But perhaps one of Mrs. Inglethorp's keys would open it.'' He tried several, twisting and turning them with a practiced hand, and finally uttering an ejaculation of satisfaction. ``Violà! It is not the key, but it will open it at a pinch.'' He slid back the roll top, and ran a rapid eye over the neatly filed papers. To my surprise, he did not examine them, merely remarking approvingly as he relocked the desk: ``Decidedly, he is a man of method, this Mr. Inglethorp!''

A ``man of method'' was, in Poirot's estimation, the highest praise that could be bestowed on any individual.

I felt that my friend was not what he had been as he rambled on disconnectedly:

``There were no stamps in his desk, but there might have been, eh, mon ami? There might have been? Yes'' -- his eyes wandered round the room -- ``this boudoir has nothing more to tell us. It did not yield much. Only this.''

He pulled a crumpled envelope out of his pocket, and tossed it over to me. It was rather a curious document. A plain, dirty looking old envelope with a few words scrawled across it, apparently at random. The following is a facsimile of it:

Chapter 5

``IT ISN'T STRYCHNINE, IS IT?''

``WHERE did you find this?'' I asked Poirot, in lively curiosity.

``In the waste-paper basket. You recognise the handwriting?''

``Yes, it is Mrs. Inglethorp's. But what does it mean?''

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

``I cannot say -- but it is suggestive.''

A wild idea flashed across me. Was it possible that Mrs. Inglethorp's mind was deranged? Had she some fantastic idea of demoniacal possession? And, if that were so, was it not also possible that she might have taken her own life?

I was about to expound these theories to Poirot, when his own words distracted me.

``Come,'' he said, ``now to examine the coffee-cups!''

``My dear Poirot! What on earth is the good of that, now that we know about the coco?''

``Oh, là là! That miserable coco!'' cried Poirot flippantly.

He laughed with apparent enjoyment, raising his arms to heaven in mock despair, in what I could not but consider the worst possible taste.

``And, anyway,'' I said, with increasing coldness, ``as Mrs. Inglethorp took her coffee upstairs with her, I do not see what you expect to find, unless you consider it likely that we shall discover a packet of strychnine on the coffee tray!''

Poirot was sobered at once.

``Come, come, my friend,'' he said, slipping his arms through mine. ``Ne vous fâchez pas! Allow me to interest myself in my coffee-cups, and I will respect your coco. There! Is it a bargain?''

He was so quaintly humorous that I was forced to laugh; and we went together to the drawing-room, where the coffee-cups and tray remained undisturbed as we had left them.

Poirot made me recapitulate the scene of the night before, listening very carefully, and verifying the position of the various cups.

``So Mrs. Cavendish stood by the tray -- and poured out. Yes. Then she came across to the window where you sat with Mademoiselle Cynthia. Yes. Here are the three cups. And the cup on the mantel-piece, half drunk, that would be Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's. And the one on the tray?''

``John Cavendish's. I saw him put it down there.''

``Good. One, two, three, four, five -- but where, then, is the cup of Mr. Inglethorp?''

``He does not take coffee.''

``Then all are accounted for. One moment, my friend.''

With infinite care, he took a drop or two from the grounds in each cup, sealing them up in separate test tubes, tasting each in turn as he did so. His physiognomy underwent a curious change. An expression gathered there that I can only describe as half puzzled, and half relieved.

``Bien!'' he said at last. ``It is evident! I had an idea -- but clearly I was mistaken. Yes, altogether I was mistaken. Yet it is strange. But no matter!''

And, with a characteristic shrug, he dismissed whatever it was that was worrying him from his mind. I could have told him from the beginning that this obsession of his over the coffee was bound to end in a blind alley, but I restrained my tongue. After all, though he was old, Poirot had been a great man in his day.

``Breakfast is ready,'' said John Cavendish, coming in from the hall. ``You will breakfast with us, Monsieur Poirot?''

Poirot acquiesced. I observed John. Already he was almost restored to his normal self. The shock of the events of the last night had upset him temporarily, but his equable poise soon swung back to the normal. He was a man of very little imagination, in sharp contrast with his brother, who had, perhaps, too much.

Ever since the early hours of the morning, John had been hard at work, sending telegrams -- one of the first had gone to Evelyn Howard -- writing notices for the papers, and generally occupying himself with the melancholy duties that a death entails.

``May I ask how things are proceeding?'' he said. ``Do your investigations point to my mother having died a natural death -- or -- or must we prepare ourselves for the worst?''

``I think, Mr. Cavendish,'' said Poirot gravely, ``that you would do well not to buoy yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell me the views of the other members of the family?''

``My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss over nothing. He says that everything points to its being a simple case of heart failure.''

``He does, does he? That is very interesting -- very interesting,'' murmured Poirot softly. ``And Mrs. Cavendish?''

A faint cloud passed over John's face.

``I have not the least idea what my wife's views on the subject are.''

The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train. John broke the rather awkward silence by saying with a slight effort:

``I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has returned?''

Poirot bent his head.

``It's an awkward position for all of us. Of course one has to treat him as usual -- but, hang it all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eat with a possible murderer!''

Poirot nodded sympathetically.

``I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for you, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for not returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?''

``Yes.''

``I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key was forgotten -- that he did not take it after all?''

``I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall drawer. I'll go and see if it's there now.''

Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile.

``No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I am certain that you would find it. If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to replace it by now.''

``But do you think -- -- ''

``I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before his return, and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in his favour. That is all.''

John looked perplexed.

``Do not worry,'' said Poirot smoothly. ``I assure you that you need not let it trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast.''

Every one was assembled in the dining-room. Under the circumstances, we were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were all suffering from it. Decorum and good breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should be much as usual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really a matter of great difficulty. There were no red eyes, no signs of secretly indulged grief. I felt that I was right in my opinion that Dorcas was the person most affected by the personal side of the tragedy.

I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in a manner that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know that we suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not be unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring of fear, or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a marked man.

But did every one suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I watched her as she sat at the head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. In her soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she chose, however, her face could be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent, hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great strength of her personality was dominating us all.

And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, I thought. The heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. I asked her if she were feeling ill, and she answered frankly:

``Yes, I've got the most beastly headache.''

``Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?'' said Poirot solicitously. ``It will revive you. It is unparalleled for the mal de tête.'' He jumped up and took her cup.

``No sugar,'' said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the sugar-tongs.

``No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, eh?''

``No, I never take it in coffee.''

``Sacré!'' murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back the replenished cup.

Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I saw that his face was working with suppressed excitement, and his eyes were as green as a cat's. He had heard or seen something that had affected him strongly -- but what was it? I do not usually label myself as dense, but I must confess that nothing out of the ordinary had attracted my attention.

In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared.

``Mr. Wells to see you, sir,'' she said to John.

I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer to whom Mrs. Inglethorp had written the night before.

John rose immediately.

``Show him into my study.'' Then he turned to us. ``My mother's lawyer,'' he explained. And in a lower voice: ``He is also Coroner -- you understand. Perhaps you would like to come with me?''

We acquiesced and followed him out of the room. John strode on ahead and I took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot:

``There will be an inquest then?''

Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so that my curiosity was aroused.

``What is it? You are not attending to what I say.''

``It is true, my friend. I am much worried.''

``Why?''

``Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee.''

``What? You cannot be serious?''

``But I am most serious. Ah, there is something there that I do not understand. My instinct was right.''

``What instinct?''

``The instinct that led me to insist on examining those coffee-cups. Chut! no more now!''

We followed John into his study, and he closed the door behind us.

Mr. Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with keen eyes, and the typical lawyer's mouth. John introduced us both, and explained the reason of our presence.

``You will understand, Wells,'' he added, ``that this is all strictly private. We are still hoping that there will turn out to be no need for investigation of any kind.''

``Quite so, quite so,'' said Mr. Wells soothingly. ``I wish we could have spared you the pain and publicity of an inquest, but of course it's quite unavoidable in the absence of a doctor's certificate.''

``Yes, I suppose so.''

``Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe.''

``Indeed,'' said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Then he added rather hesitatingly: ``Shall we have to appear as witnesses -- all of us, I mean?''

``You, of course -- and ah -- er -- Mr. -- er -- Inglethorp.''

A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner:

``Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form.''

``I see.''

A faint expression of relief swept over John's face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it.

``If you know of nothing to the contrary,'' pursued Mr. Wells, ``I had thought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor's report. The post-mortem is to take place to-night, I believe?''

``Yes.''

``Then that arrangement will suit you?''

``Perfectly.''

``I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most tragic affair.''

``Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?'' interposed Poirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered the room.

``I?''

``Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning.''

``I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great importance.''

``She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?''

``Unfortunately, no.''

``That is a pity,'' said John.

``A great pity,'' agreed Poirot gravely.

There was silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes. Finally he turned to the lawyer again.

``Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you -- that is, if it is not against professional etiquette. In the event of Mrs. Inglethorp's death, who would inherit her money?''

The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied:

``The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr. Cavendish does not object -- -- ''

``Not at all,'' interpolated John.

``I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. By her last will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legacies to servants, etc., she gave her entire fortune to her stepson, Mr. John Cavendish.''

``Was not that -- pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish -- rather unfair to her other stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?''

``No, I do not think so. You see, under the terms of their father's will, while John inherited the property, Lawrence, at his stepmother's death, would come into a considerable sum of money. Mrs. Inglethorp left her money to her elder stepson, knowing that he would have to keep up Styles. It was, to my mind, a very fair and equitable distribution.''

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

``I see. But I am right in saying, am I not, that by your English law that will was automatically revoked when Mrs. Inglethorp remarried?''

Mr. Wells bowed his head.

``As I was about to proceed, Monsieur Poirot, that document is now null and void.''

``Hein!'' said Poirot. He reflected for a moment, and then asked: ``Was Mrs. Inglethorp herself aware of that fact?''

``I do not know. She may have been.''

``She was,'' said John unexpectedly. ``We were discussing the matter of wills being revoked by marriage only yesterday.''

``Ah! One more question, Mr. Wells. You say `her last will.' Had Mrs. Inglethorp, then, made several former wills?''

``On an average, she made a new will at least once a year,'' said Mr. Wells imperturbably. ``She was given to changing her mind as to her testamentary dispositions, now benefiting one, now another member of her family.''

``Suppose,'' suggested Poirot, ``that, unknown to you, she had made a new will in favour of some one who was not, in any sense of the word, a member of the family -- we will say Miss Howard, for instance -- would you be surprised?''

``Not in the least.''

``Ah!'' Poirot seemed to have exhausted his questions.

I drew close to him, while John and the lawyer were debating the question of going through Mrs. Inglethorp's papers.

``Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp made a will leaving all her money to Miss Howard?'' I asked in a low voice, with some curiosity.

Poirot smiled.

``No.''

``Then why did you ask?''

``Hush!''

John Cavendish had turned to Poirot.

``Will you come with us, Monsieur Poirot? We are going through my mother's papers. Mr. Inglethorp is quite willing to leave it entirely to Mr. Wells and myself.''

``Which simplifies matters very much,'' murmured the lawyer. ``As technically, of course, he was entitled -- -- '' He did not finish the sentence.

``We will look through the desk in the boudoir first,'' explained John, ``and go up to her bedroom afterwards. She kept her most important papers in a purple despatch-case, which we must look through carefully.''

``Yes,'' said the lawyer, ``it is quite possible that there may be a later will than the one in my possession.''

``There is a later will.'' It was Poirot who spoke.

``What?'' John and the lawyer looked at him startled.

``Or, rather,'' pursued my friend imperturbably, ``there was one.''

``What do you mean -- there was one? Where is it now?''

``Burnt!''

``Burnt?''

``Yes. See here.'' He took out the charred fragment we had found in the grate in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, and handed it to the lawyer with a brief explanation of when and where he had found it.

``But possibly this is an old will?''

``I do not think so. In fact I am almost certain that it was made no earlier than yesterday afternoon.''

``What?'' ``Impossible!'' broke simultaneously from both men.

Poirot turned to John.

``If you will allow me to send for your gardener, I will prove it to you.''

``Oh, of course -- but I don't see -- -- ''

Poirot raised his hand.

``Do as I ask you. Afterwards you shall question as much as you please.''

``Very well.'' He rang the bell.

Dorcas answered it in due course.

``Dorcas, will you tell Manning to come round and speak to me here.''

``Yes, sir.''

Dorcas withdrew.

We waited in a tense silence. Poirot alone seemed perfectly at his ease, and dusted a forgotten corner of the bookcase.

The clumping of hobnailed boots on the gravel outside proclaimed the approach of Manning. John looked questioningly at Poirot. The latter nodded.

``Come inside, Manning,'' said John, ``I want to speak to you.''

Manning came slowly and hesitatingly through the French window, and stood as near it as he could. He held his cap in his hands, twisting it very carefully round and round. His back was much bent, though he was probably not as old as he looked, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent, and belied his slow and rather cautious speech.

``Manning,'' said John, ``this gentleman will put some questions to you which I want you to answer.''

``Yessir,'' mumbled Manning.

Poirot stepped forward briskly. Manning's eye swept over him with a faint contempt.

``You were planting a bed of begonias round by the south side of the house yesterday afternoon, were you not, Manning?''

``Yes, sir, me and Willum.''

``And Mrs. Inglethorp came to the window and called you, did she not?''

``Yes, sir, she did.''

``Tell me in your own words exactly what happened after that.''

``Well, sir, nothing much. She just told Willum to go on his bicycle down to the village, and bring back a form of will, or such-like -- I don't know what exactly -- she wrote it down for him.''

``Well?''

``Well, he did, sir.''

``And what happened next?''

``We went on with the begonias, sir.''

``Did not Mrs. Inglethorp call you again?''

``Yes, sir, both me and Willum, she called.''

``And then?''

``She made us come right in, and sign our names at the bottom of a long paper -- under where she'd signed.''

``Did you see anything of what was written above her signature?'' asked Poirot sharply.

``No, sir, there was a bit of blotting paper over that part.''

``And you signed where she told you?''

``Yes, sir, first me and then Willum.''

``What did she do with it afterwards?''

``Well, sir, she slipped it into a long envelope, and put it inside a sort of purple box that was standing on the desk.''

``What time was it when she first called you?''

``About four, I should say, sir.''

``Not earlier? Couldn't it have been about half-past three?''

``No, I shouldn't say so, sir. It would be more likely to be a bit after four -- not before it.''

``Thank you, Manning, that will do,'' said Poirot pleasantly.

The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manning lifted a finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backed cautiously out of the window.

We all looked at each other.

``Good heavens!'' murmured John. ``What an extraordinary coincidence.''

``How -- a coincidence?''

``That my mother should have made a will on the very day of her death!''

Mr. Wells cleared his throat and remarked drily:

``Are you so sure it is a coincidence, Cavendish?''

``What do you mean?''

``Your mother, you tell me, had a violent quarrel with -- some one yesterday afternoon -- -- ''

``What do you mean?'' cried John again. There was a tremor in his voice, and he had gone very pale.

``In consequence of that quarrel, your mother very suddenly and hurriedly makes a new will. The contents of that will we shall never know. She told no one of its provisions. This morning, no doubt, she would have consulted me on the subject -- but she had no chance. The will disappears, and she takes its secret with her to her grave. Cavendish, I much fear there is no coincidence there. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that the facts are very suggestive.''

``Suggestive, or not,'' interrupted John, ``we are most grateful to Monsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we should never have known of this will. I suppose, I may not ask you, monsieur, what first led you to suspect the fact?''

Poirot smiled and answered:

``A scribbled over old envelope, and a freshly planted bed of begonias.''

John, I think, would have pressed his questions further, but at that moment the loud purr of a motor was audible, and we all turned to the window as it swept past.

``Evie!'' cried John. ``Excuse me, Wells.'' He went hurriedly out into the hall.

Poirot looked inquiringly at me.

``Miss Howard,'' I explained.

``Ah, I am glad she has come. There is a woman with a head and a heart too, Hastings. Though the good God gave her no beauty!''

I followed John's example, and went out into the hall, where Miss Howard was endeavouring to extricate herself from the voluminous mass of veils that enveloped her head. As her eyes fell on me, a sudden pang of guilt shot through me. This was the woman who had warned me so earnestly, and to whose warning I had, alas, paid no heed! How soon, and how contemptuously, I had dismissed it from my mind. Now that she had been proved justified in so tragic a manner, I felt ashamed. She had known Alfred Inglethorp only too well. I wondered whether, if she had remained at Styles, the tragedy would have taken place, or would the man have feared her watchful eyes?

I was relieved when she shook me by the hand, with her well remembered painful grip. The eyes that met mine were sad, but not reproachful; that she had been crying bitterly, I could tell by the redness of her eyelids, but her manner was unchanged from its old gruffness.

``Started the moment I got the wire. Just come off night duty. Hired car. Quickest way to get here.''

``Have you had anything to eat this morning, Evie?'' asked John.

``No.''

``I thought not. Come along, breakfast's not cleared away yet, and they'll make you some fresh tea.'' He turned to me. ``Look after her, Hastings, will you? Wells is waiting for me. Oh, here's Monsieur Poirot. He's helping us, you know, Evie.''

Miss Howard shook hands with Poirot, but glanced suspiciously over her shoulder at John.

``What do you mean -- helping us?''

``Helping us to investigate.''

``Nothing to investigate. Have they taken him to prison yet?''

``Taken who to prison?''

``Who? Alfred Inglethorp, of course!''

``My dear Evie, do be careful. Lawrence is of the opinion that my mother died from heart seizure.''

``More fool, Lawrence!'' retorted Miss Howard. ``Of course Alfred Inglethorp murdered poor Emily -- as I always told you he would.''

``My dear Evie, don't shout so. Whatever we may think or suspect, it is better to say as little as possible for the present. The inquest isn't until Friday.''

``Not until fiddlesticks!'' The snort Miss Howard gave was truly magnificent. ``You're all off your heads. The man will be out of the country by then. If he's any sense, he won't stay here tamely and wait to be hanged.''

John Cavendish looked at her helplessly.

``I know what it is,'' she accused him, ``you've been listening to the doctors. Never should. What do they know? Nothing at all -- or just enough to make them dangerous. I ought to know -- my own father was a doctor. That little Wilkins is about the greatest fool that even I have ever seen. Heart seizure! Sort of thing he would say. Anyone with any sense could see at once that her husband had poisoned her. I always said he'd murder her in her bed, poor soul. Now he's done it. And all you can do is to murmur silly things about `heart seizure' and `inquest on Friday.' You ought to be ashamed of yourself, John Cavendish.''

``What do you want me to do?'' asked John, unable to help a faint smile. ``Dash it all, Evie, I can't haul him down to the local police station by the scruff of his neck.''

``Well, you might do something. Find out how he did it. He's a crafty beggar. Dare say he soaked fly papers. Ask Cook if she's missed any.''

It occurred to me very forcibly at that moment that to harbour Miss Howard and Alfred Inglethorp under the same roof, and keep the peace between them, was likely to prove a Herculean task, and I did not envy John. I could see by the expression of his face that he fully appreciated the difficulty of the position. For the moment, he sought refuge in retreat, and left the room precipitately.

Dorcas brought in fresh tea. As she left the room, Poirot came over from the window where he had been standing, and sat down facing Miss Howard.

``Mademoiselle,'' he said gravely, ``I want to ask you something.''

``Ask away,'' said the lady, eyeing him with some disfavour.

``I want to be able to count upon your help.''

``I'll help you to hang Alfred with pleasure,'' she replied gruffly. ``Hanging's too good for him. Ought to be drawn and quartered, like in good old times.''

``We are at one then,'' said Poirot, ``for I, too, want to hang the criminal.''

``Alfred Inglethorp?''

``Him, or another.''

``No question of another. Poor Emily was never murdered until he came along. I don't say she wasn't surrounded by sharks -- she was. But it was only her purse they were after. Her life was safe enough. But along comes Mr. Alfred Inglethorp -- and within two months -- hey presto!''

``Believe me, Miss Howard,'' said Poirot very earnestly, ``if Mr. Inglethorp is the man, he shall not escape me. On my honour, I will hang him as high as Haman!''

``That's better,'' said Miss Howard more enthusiastically.

``But I must ask you to trust me. Now your help may be very valuable to me. I will tell you why. Because, in all this house of mourning, yours are the only eyes that have wept.''

Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into the gruffness of her voice.

``If you mean that I was fond of her -- yes, I was. You know, Emily was a selfish old woman in her way. She was very generous, but she always wanted a return. She never let people forget what she had done for them -- and, that way she missed love. Don't think she ever realized it, though, or felt the lack of it. Hope not, anyway. I was on a different footing. I took my stand from the first. `So many pounds a year I'm worth to you. Well and good. But not a penny piece besides -- not a pair of gloves, nor a theatre ticket.' She didn't understand -- was very offended sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasn't that -- but I couldn't explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, out of the whole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to be fond of her. I watched over her. I guarded her from the lot of them, and then a glib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh! all my years of devotion go for nothing.''

Poirot nodded sympathetically.

``I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It is most natural. You think that we are lukewarm -- that we lack fire and energy -- but trust me, it is not so.''

John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both to come up to Mrs. Inglethorp's room, as he and Mr. Wells had finished looking through the desk in the boudoir.

As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining-room door, and lowered his voice confidentially:

``Look here, what's going to happen when these two meet?''

I shook my head helplessly.

``I've told Mary to keep them apart if she can.''

``Will she be able to do so?''

``The Lord only knows. There's one thing, Inglethorp himself won't be too keen on meeting her.''

``You've got the keys still, haven't you, Poirot?'' I asked, as we reached the door of the locked room.

Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it, and we all passed in. The lawyer went straight to the desk, and John followed him.

``My mother kept most of her important papers in this despatch-case, I believe,'' he said.

Poirot drew out the small bunch of keys.

``Permit me. I locked it, out of precaution, this morning.''

``But it's not locked now.''

``Impossible!''

``See.'' And John lifted the lid as he spoke.

``Milles tonnerres!'' cried Poirot, dumfounded. ``And I -- who have both the keys in my pocket!'' He flung himself upon the case. Suddenly he stiffened. ``En voilà une affaire! This lock has been forced.''

``What?''

Poirot laid down the case again.

``But who forced it? Why should they? When? But the door was locked?'' These exclamations burst from us disjointedly.

Poirot answered them categorically -- almost mechanically.

``Who? That is the question. Why? Ah, if I only knew. When? Since I was here an hour ago. As to the door being locked, it is a very ordinary lock. Probably any other of the doorkeys in this passage would fit it.''

We stared at one another blankly. Poirot had walked over to the mantel-piece. He was outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands, which from long force of habit were mechanically straightening the spill vases on the mantel-piece, were shaking violently.

``See here, it was like this,'' he said at last. ``There was something in that case -- some piece of evidence, slight in itself perhaps, but still enough of a clue to connect the murderer with the crime. It was vital to him that it should be destroyed before it was discovered and its significance appreciated. Therefore, he took the risk, the great risk, of coming in here. Finding the case locked, he was obliged to force it, thus betraying his presence. For him to take that risk, it must have been something of great importance.''

``But what was it?''

``Ah!'' cried Poirot, with a gesture of anger. ``That, I do not know! A document of some kind, without doubt, possibly the scrap of paper Dorcas saw in her hand yesterday afternoon. And I -- '' his anger burst forth freely -- ``miserable animal that I am! I guessed nothing! I have behaved like an imbecile! I should never have left that case here. I should have carried it away with me. Ah, triple pig! And now it is gone. It is destroyed -- but is it destroyed? Is there not yet a chance -- we must leave no stone unturned -- ''

He rushed like a madman from the room, and I followed him as soon as I had sufficiently recovered my wits. But, by the time I had reached the top of the stairs, he was out of sight.

Mary Cavendish was standing where the staircase branched, staring down into the hall in the direction in which he had disappeared.

``What has happened to your extraordinary little friend, Mr. Hastings? He has just rushed past me like a mad bull.''

``He's rather upset about something,'' I remarked feebly. I really did not know how much Poirot would wish me to disclose. As I saw a faint smile gather on Mrs. Cavendish's expressive mouth, I endeavoured to try and turn the conversation by saying: ``They haven't met yet, have they?''

``Who?''

``Mr. Inglethorp and Miss Howard.''

She looked at me in rather a disconcerting manner.

``Do you think it would be such a disaster if they did meet?''

``Well, don't you?'' I said, rather taken aback.

``No.'' She was smiling in her quiet way. ``I should like to see a good flare up. It would clear the air. At present we are all thinking so much, and saying so little.''

``John doesn't think so,'' I remarked. ``He's anxious to keep them apart.''

``Oh, John!''

Something in her tone fired me, and I blurted out:

``Old John's an awfully good sort.''

She studied me curiously for a minute or two, and then said, to my great surprise:

``You are loyal to your friend. I like you for that.''

``Aren't you my friend too?''

``I am a very bad friend.''

``Why do you say that?''

``Because it is true. I am charming to my friends one day, and forget all about them the next.''

I don't know what impelled me, but I was nettled, and I said foolishly and not in the best of taste:

``Yet you seem to be invariably charming to Dr. Bauerstein!''

Instantly I regretted my words. Her face stiffened. I had the impression of a steel curtain coming down and blotting out the real woman. Without a word, she turned and went swiftly up the stairs, whilst I stood like an idiot gaping after her.

I was recalled to other matters by a frightful row going on below. I could hear Poirot shouting and expounding. I was vexed to think that my diplomacy had been in vain. The little man appeared to be taking the whole house into his confidence, a proceeding of which I, for one, doubted the wisdom. Once again I could not help regretting that my friend was so prone to lose his head in moments of excitement. I stepped briskly down the stairs. The sight of me calmed Poirot almost immediately. I drew him aside.

``My dear fellow,'' I said, ``is this wise? Surely you don't want the whole house to know of this occurrence? You are actually playing into the criminal's hands.''

``You think so, Hastings?''

``I am sure of it.''

``Well, well, my friend, I will be guided by you.''

``Good. Although, unfortunately, it is a little too late now.''

``Sure.''

He looked so crestfallen and abashed that I felt quite sorry, though I still thought my rebuke a just and wise one.

``Well,'' he said at last, ``let us go, mon ami.''

``You have finished here?''

``For the moment, yes. You will walk back with me to the village?''

``Willingly.''

He picked up his little suit-case, and we went out through the open window in the drawing-room. Cynthia Murdoch was just coming in, and Poirot stood aside to let her pass.

``Excuse me, mademoiselle, one minute.''

``Yes?'' she turned inquiringly.

``Did you ever make up Mrs. Inglethorp's medicines?''

A slight flush rose in her face, as she answered rather constrainedly:

``No.''

``Only her powders?''

The flush deepened as Cynthia replied:

``Oh, yes, I did make up some sleeping powders for her once.''

``These?''

Poirot produced the empty box which had contained powders.

She nodded.

``Can you tell me what they were? Sulphonal? Veronal?''

``No, they were bromide powders.''

``Ah! Thank you, mademoiselle; good morning.''

As we walked briskly away from the house, I glanced at him more than once. I had often before noticed that, if anything excited him, his eyes turned green like a cat's. They were shining like emeralds now.

``My friend,'' he broke out at last, ``I have a little idea, a very strange, and probably utterly impossible idea. And yet -- it fits in.''

I shrugged my shoulders. I privately thought that Poirot was rather too much given to these fantastic ideas. In this case, surely, the truth was only too plain and apparent.

``So that is the explanation of the blank label on the box,'' I remarked. ``Very simple, as you said. I really wonder that I did not think of it myself.''

Poirot did not appear to be listening to me.

``They have made one more discovery, là-bas,'' he observed, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Styles. ``Mr. Wells told me as we were going upstairs.''

``What was it?''

``Locked up in the desk in the boudoir, they found a will of Mrs. Inglethorp's, dated before her marriage, leaving her fortune to Alfred Inglethorp. It must have been made just at the time they were engaged. It came quite as a surprise to Wells -- and to John Cavendish also. It was written on one of those printed will forms, and witnessed by two of the servants -- not Dorcas.''

``Did Mr. Inglethorp know of it?''

``He says not.''

``One might take that with a grain of salt,'' I remarked sceptically. ``All these wills are very confusing. Tell me, how did those scribbled words on the envelope help you to discover that a will was made yesterday afternoon?''

Poirot smiled.

``Mon ami, have you ever, when writing a letter, been arrested by the fact that you did not know how to spell a certain word?''

``Yes, often. I suppose every one has.''

``Exactly. And have you not, in such a case, tried the word once or twice on the edge of the blotting-paper, or a spare scrap of paper, to see if it looked right? Well, that is what Mrs. Inglethorp did. You will notice that the word `possessed' is spelt first with one's' end subsequently with two -- correctly. To make sure, she had further tried it in a sentence, thus: `I am possessed.' Now, what did that tell me? It told me that Mrs. Inglethorp had been writing the word `possessed' that afternoon, and, having the fragment of paper found in the grate fresh in my mind, the possibility of a will -- (a document almost certain to contain that word) -- occurred to me at once. This possibility was confirmed by a further circumstance. In the general confusion, the boudoir had not been swept that morning, and near the desk were several traces of brown mould and earth. The weather had been perfectly fine for some days, and no ordinary boots would have left such a heavy deposit.

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