The house which the Belgians occupied in the village was quite close to the park gates. One could save time by taking a narrow path through the long grass, which cut off the detours of the winding drive. So I, accordingly, went that way. I had nearly reached the lodge, when my attention was arrested by the running figure of a man approaching me. It was Mr. Inglethorp. Where had he been? How did he intend to explain his absence?

He accosted me eagerly.

"My God! This is terrible! My poor wife! I have only just heard."

"Where have you been?" I asked.

"Denby kept me late last night. It was one o'clock before we'd finished. Then I found that I'd forgotten the latch-key after all. I didn't want to arouse the household, so Denby gave me a bed."

"How did you hear the news?" I asked.

"Wilkins knocked Denby up to tell him. My poor Emily! She was so self-sacrificing--such a noble character. She over-taxed her strength."

A wave of revulsion swept over me. What a consummate hypocrite the man was!

"I must hurry on," I said, thankful that he did not ask me whither I was bound.

In a few minutes I was knocking at the door of Leastways Cottage.

Getting no answer, I repeated my summons impatiently. A window above me was cautiously opened, and Poirot himself looked out.

He gave an exclamation of surprise at seeing me. In a few brief words, I explained the tragedy that had occurred, and that I wanted his help.

"Wait, my friend, I will let you in, and you shall recount to me the affair whilst I dress."

In a few moments he had unbarred the door, and I followed him up to his room. There he installed me in a chair, and I related the whole story, keeping back nothing, and omitting no circumstance, however insignificant, whilst he himself made a careful and deliberate toilet.

I told him of my awakening, of Mrs. Inglethorp's dying words, of her husband's absence, of the quarrel the day before, of the scrap of conversation between Mary and her mother-in-law that I had overheard, of the former quarrel between Mrs. Inglethorp and Evelyn Howard, and of the latter's innuendoes.

I was hardly as clear as I could wish. I repeated myself several times, and occasionally had to go back to some detail that I had forgotten. Poirot smiled kindly on me.

"The mind is confused? Is it not so? Take time, mon ami. You are agitated; you are excited--it is but natural. Presently, when we are calmer, we will arrange the facts, neatly, each in his proper place. We will examine--and reject. Those of importance we will put on one side; those of no importance, pouf!"--he screwed up his cherub-like face, and puffed comically enough--"blow them away!"

"That's all very well," I objected, "but how are you going to decide what is important, and what isn't? That always seems the difficulty to me."

Poirot shook his head energetically. He was now arranging his moustache with exquisite care.

"Not so. Voyons! One fact leads to another--so we continue. Does the next fit in with that? A merveille! Good! We can proceed. This next little fact--no! Ah, that is curious! There is something missing--a link in the chain that is not there. We examine. We search. And that little curious fact, that possibly paltry little detail that will not tally, we put it here!" He made an extravagant gesture with his hand. "It is significant! It is tremendous!"

"Y--es--"

"Ah!" Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely at me that I quailed before it. "Beware! Peril to the detective who says: 'It is so small--it does not matter. It will not agree. I will forget it.' That way lies confusion! Everything matters."

"I know. You always told me that. That's why I have gone into all the details of this thing whether they seemed to me relevant or not."

"And I am pleased with you. You have a good memory, and you have given me the facts faithfully. Of the order in which you present them, I say nothing--truly, it is deplorable! But I make allowances--you are upset. To that I attribute the circumstance that you have omitted one fact of paramount importance."

"What is that?" I asked.

"You have not told me if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night."

I stared at him. Surely the war had affected the little man's brain. He was carefully engaged in brushing his coat before putting it on, and seemed wholly engrossed in the task.

"I don't remember," I said. "And, anyway, I don't see----"

"You do not see? But it is of the first importance."

"I can't see why," I said, rather nettled. "As far as I can remember, she didn't eat much. She was obviously upset, and it had taken her appetite away. That was only natural."

"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "it was only natural."

He opened a drawer, and took out a small despatch-case, then turned to me.

"Now I am ready. We will proceed to the chateau, and study matters on the spot. Excuse me, mon ami, you dressed in haste, and your tie is on one side. Permit me." With a deft gesture, he rearranged it.

"Ca y est! Now, shall we start?"

We hurried up the village, and turned in at the lodge gates. Poirot stopped for a moment, and gazed sorrowfully over the beautiful expanse of park, still glittering with morning dew.

"So beautiful, so beautiful, and yet, the poor family, plunged in sorrow, prostrated with grief."

He looked at me keenly as he spoke, and I was aware that I reddened under his prolonged gaze.

Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs. Inglethorp's death so great? I realized that there was an emotional lack in the atmosphere. The dead woman had not the gift of commanding love. Her death was a shock and a distress, but she would not be passionately regretted.

Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded his head gravely.

"No, you are right," he said, "it is not as though there was a blood tie. She has been kind and generous to these Cavendishes, but she was not their own mother. Blood tells--always remember that--blood tells."

"Poirot," I said, "I wish you would tell me why you wanted to know if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turning it over in my mind, but I can't see how it has anything to do with the matter?"

He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finally he said:

"I do not mind telling you--though, as you know, it is not my habit to explain until the end is reached. The present contention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably administered in her coffee."

"Yes?"

"Well, what time was the coffee served?"

"About eight o'clock."

"Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight-- certainly not much later. Well, strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in about an hour. Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp's case, the symptoms do not manifest themselves until five o'clock the next morning: nine hours! But a heavy meal, taken at about the same time as the poison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent. Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account. But, according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet the symptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it."

As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard.

"This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?"

"I comprehend perfectly."

"You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon."

"Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only."

John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so.

"You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?"

"Yes. I met him."

John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly.

"It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him."

"That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly.

John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me.

"Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see."

"The rooms are locked?" asked Poirot.

"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable."

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

"Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us."

We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it.

Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance.

"What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you remain there like--how do you say it?--ah, yes, the stuck pig?"

I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks.

"Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practically an army in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I need it."

He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated the despatch-case on the floor.

"Eh voila une table!" cried Poirot. "Ah, my friend, one may live in a big house and yet have no comfort."

After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search.

A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the writing-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took out the key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. I saw nothing peculiar, however. It was an ordinary key of the Yale type, with a bit of twisted wire through the handle.

Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in, assuring himself that the bolt had really been shot. Then he went to the door opposite leading into Cynthia's room. That door was also bolted, as I had stated. However, he went to the length of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it several times; this he did with the utmost precaution against 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. "Viola! 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.

比利时人在村子里住的房子，紧贴园子的大门。沿着一条狭窄的小径，穿过一片长长的草坪，不走那弯弯曲曲的车道，抄近路去，可以省下不少时间。因此，我就走这条路。当我快到门房时，一个步履匆匆迎面而来的男人的身影，引起了我的注意。原来是英格里桑先生。他一直在哪儿呀？他打算怎样来解释他的不在场呢？

他急切地朝我迎了上来。

“我的天哪！大可泊了！我可怜的妻子啊！我方才才听说。”

“你在哪儿呀？”我问道。

“昨晚上登拜留我耽晚了，我们一直谈到深夜一点钟。这时，我发现到底还是忘了带大门的钥匙。我不想唤醒家里人，所以登拜留我过了夜。”

“你怎么知道这个消息的？”我问。

“威尔金斯敲开登拜的门告诉我的。我可怜的埃米莉！她如此舍己为人——有着这样的高贵品质。她操劳过度了。”

一阵厌恶的心情直朝我袭来。这是个多老于此道的伪君子啊！

“我有事得赶紧去，”我说，感谢他没有问我到哪儿去。

几分钟后，我就在敲小别墅的门了。

没有回答，我急不可耐地反复敲着。我头顶的一扇窗户小心谨慎地打开了，波洛本人伸出头来朝下面看了看。他看到是我，惊叫了一声。我三言两语地对他讲了发生的悲剧，并希望能得到他的帮助。

“等一等，朋友，我让你进来。我穿衣服时，你详细给我讲一讲这事情的经过。”

过了一会，他打开了门，我跟着他走进他的房间。他让我在一张椅子上坐了下来，接着我毫无隐瞒地叙述了整个事情的经过，即使是极小的细节也不遗漏。而他则一直精心细致地给自己打扮着。

我给他讲了我怎样被唤醒，英格里桑太太临终时说的话，她的丈夫为什么不在场，前一天的吵架情况，我偶然听到的玛丽和她的婆婆之间的那次谈话的片断，在此之前英格里桑太太和伊夫琳·霍华德之间的争吵，还有后者的暗示。等等。

我讲得没能象我所希望的那样清楚。有几次我讲重复了。偶尔，我又不得不回头讲某个漏掉的细节。波洛和蔼地朝我笑笑。

“脑子搞湖了么？不是这样的？慢慢讲吧，我的朋友。你讲得太急。你太激动了——一激动就不自然。过一会，等我们镇静一点的时候，我们来把事实理一理，好好归归类，使它们各得其所。然后，检查一下，剔掉一些。那些不重要的，卟！”——他皱起那张小天使般的脸，十分滑稽地吹了一口——“把它们吹跑！”

“那样当然很好，”我表示反对，“可是你打算怎么来确定什么是重要的，什么又是不重要的呢？那样做，我着始终是有困难的。”

波洛使劲地摇了摇头。这时他正异常仔细地在摆弄他那一抹翘胡子。

“并非如此。得啦！事实是一个连接一个的——因此我们得以继续下去。下一个和这相符吗？好极了！好！我们可以进行下去。这下一个很少是事实——不行！嗨！那就难以理解！就是缺了什么了——这根链条上有一环不对头，我们就要检查，我们就要探究。小小的一件难以理解的事实，可能是一个微不足道的细节不相符，那我们就把它放在这儿！”他做了一个放肆的手势。“这就值得注意！这就是异常情况！”

“是——的——”

“嗨！”波洛使劲地朝我摇着食指，我都在这前面给吓住了。“要当心！一个侦探如果说，‘这是小事一桩，无关紧要。那一点不对路，可以忽略。’就危险了。那就糟糕！事无大小，都很重要。”

“我知道。你一直就这样告诉我。所以我了解了这桩案子的全部细节，不管它们是否与我有关。”

“我很为你高兴。你的记忆力很好。你已经如实地告诉了我全部事实经过。可是根据你的介绍，我可无话可说——真的，这是可悲的。不过，我估计——你会为此感到狼狈。问题是我认为你把一个最重要的事实给遗漏了。”

“什么事实？”我问道。

“你没有告诉我，昨天晚上，英格里桑太太胃口是否好。

我瞪眼直盯着他，想必是战争影响了这位小个子的脑子。他把外套穿到身上之前，小小心心地把它刷了又刷，仿佛全神都贯注到这件工作上了。

“我不记得了，“我说。“而且，我无论如何都不懂——”

“你不懂？可这是头等重要的。”

“我不懂为什么，”我颇为恼火地说。“我只记得，她吃得不多。她显然心烦意乱，这影响了她的食欲。那是很自然的。”

“是呀，”波洛若有所思地说，“那是很自然的。”

他拉开抽屉，取出一只小小的公文箱，然后转脸对我说：

“我已准备好了。我们出发去庄园吧，去仔细看着现场的情况。请别见怪，我的朋友，你是匆匆忙忙穿的衣服吧，瞧你领带都歪到一边了。让我来给你整一整。”他用灵巧的手势，重新给我结了领带。

“行了！出发吧。”

我们匆匆赶到庄子里，拐进庄园园林的大门。波洛停下站了一会，无限感慨地凝视着这一大片园林的美丽景色，朝露还在放射出灿烂的珠光。

“多美啊，有多美！然而，这家可怜的人家却陷入了痛苦，沉浸于悲伤。”

他说话时，目光锐利地朝我注视着，我感到，在他的长时间的注视下，我的脸红了。

这家人家被悲伤征服了么？英格里桑太太的死引起的痛苦是如此强烈么？我感到空气中缺乏这种感情。去世的女人没有博得家大的爱戴。她的死是打击和不幸，但是她将不会受到深深的哀悼。

波洛仿佛尾随着我的思想。他严肃地点点头。

“是呀，你说得对，”他说，“他们不象有血缘关系。她虽然对待卡文迪什家的人仁慈，慷慨，可是她毕竟不是他们的亲生母亲，血缘——你千万要记住这点——血缘。”

“波洛，”我说，“我希望你能告诉我，为什么你要了解英格里桑大太昨天晚上吃得是不是好呢？这问题一直在我脑子里祈腾，可我闹不清楚这和事情有什么关系。

他沉默了一两分钟。我们一直走着，后来，他终于开腔了：

“我不反对告诉你——虽然，你也知道，事情没有到达结局就作解释，这不是我的习惯。现在的问题是，英格里桑太大有可能是被下在她的咖啡里的士的宁毒死的。

“真的？“

“是呀，咖啡是什么时候送的？”

“八点左右。”

“这么说，她是在八点至八点半之间这段时间喝的了——一定不会太晚。嗯，士的宁是一种功效相当快的毒药。它的毒性很快就能感觉到，可能在一小时之内。然而，在英格里桑太太身上，中毒的症伏直到第二天早上五点钟才出现。整整九个小时！固然，要是吃得很饱，几乎在同时服下药，可以拖迟毒性发作的时间，可是不太可能拖得那么久。不过这种可能性还是得加以考虑。但是，据你所说，她晚饭吃得很少，而中毒的症状竟到第二天一早才出现！这是一个难以理解的情况，我的朋友。通过尸体解剖可能会得到某种解释。到时候，你记着这一点。”

当我们走近房子时，约翰出来迎接我们。他的脸色显得疲倦，憔悴。

“这是一件极不愉快的事情，波洛先生。”他说，“哈斯丁已经对你说明了吧？我们迫切希望不要把这事宣扬开。”

“我完全理解。”

“你知道，到目前为止这仅仅是怀疑。我们还没什么根据。”

“确实如此。这只是一种预防措施。”

约翰转脸朝向我，同时掏出烟盒，点燃了一支烟。

“你知道吗，英格里桑那家伙回来了？”

“知道。我碰到他了。”

“约翰把火柴梗扔到了近旁的花床上，这种行为实在使波洛感情上受不了。于是他把它拾了起来，顺手埋掉了。

“难哪，不知道怎么来对待他。”

“这种难处不会太久了。”波洛平静他说。

约翰显出迷惑不解的样子，不十分理解波洛说的隐晦的预言，他把鲍斯坦医生给他的两只钥匙交给了我。

“凡是波洛先生要看的，全部给他看着。”

“房间锁着的？”波洛问道。

“鲍斯坦医生认为这样为好。”

波洛若有所思地点点头。

“那他是很有把握了。哦，对我们来说这使事情简单多了。”

我们一起走向发生悲剧的那个房间。为了方便起见，我附上下面这一张房间和房间中主要家俱陈设的平面图。

波洛在里面锁上了门，对房间进行了仔细的检查。他象蚱蜢一样灵活地从一件物品蹦向另一件物品。我怕抹掉什么线索，一动不动地站在门边。然而，波洛对于我的克制态度，似乎并无感激之意。

“你怎么啦，朋友？”他大声嚷道，“你站在那儿象个——那叫什么来着？——啊，对了，干么象根木桩子呀？”

我解释说，我怕抹掉什么足迹之类的东西。

“足迹？亏你想得出！这房间实际上就象来过一支军队了！我们还能找出什么足迹来呀？别站在那儿了，来，帮我一起来搜查吧。在我要用它之前，得先放下我的小公文箱。

说着，他把小箱子往窗边的圆桌上一放，可是动作猛了一点，结果由于桌面是松动的，它一边向上翘了起来，猛地使公文箱摔落到地板上。

“瞧这桌子！”波洛叫了起来。“嗨，我的朋友，一个人有可能住一幢大房子，可是也可能并不舒适。”

在作了一番说教之后，他重又开始检查。

写字台上有一只紫红色的小公文箱，箱于的锁上插着一把钥匙，这一时引起了他的注意。他从锁孔中拨出钥匙，递给我作检查。可是我看着并无特别之处。这是一把普通弹簧锁的钥匙，捏手的地方扎着一段拧在一起的金属线。

接着，他又检查了已被我们推破的门框，弄清楚插销确实被毁坏了。然后他又走到对面的通向辛西娅房间的门边。正如我所说的那样，这扇门也是闩住的。可是，他却拉开了插销，把门打开又关上，试了好几次；试的时候，他十分小心，尽量避免发出任何声音。突然，插销上的什么东西似乎引起了他的注意。他仔细作了检查。于是，敏捷地从自己的箱子里取出一只镊子，夹起一点极小的东西，小心翼翼地把它放进一只小小的封袋。

五斗橱上搁着一只托盘，盘子里有一盏酒精灯，上面放着一只小小的长柄平底锅。锅子里还留有少量发黑的液体。一只已经喝尽的空怀子和茶托摆在它的旁边。

我自己也感到奇怪，我怎么会这样粗心，连这都给看漏了。这儿有这么一个有价值的线索。波洛灵巧地伸出一个指头往液体里蘸了一下，然后小心翼翼地尝了尝。他装出一副怪相。

“可可——里面还掺了——我想是——糖酒。”

床边的一张小桌已经翻倒在地，他走到掉落在地板上的那摊东西跟前。一盏台灯，几本书，一些火柴，一串钥匙，一只打破的咖啡怀的碎片，撒得满地都是。

“啊，这可怪了，”波洛说。

“我得承认，我看这没什么特别奇怪的地方。”

“你不感到奇怪？看这台灯——玻璃罩只跌破两处，它掉下来时，就跌成这样子。可是你看，这咖啡杯跌得完全粉碎了。”

“是呀，”我显得有点不耐烦他说，”我猜想一定是什么人踩上去过了。”

“确实如此，”波洛用一种奇怪的声音说。“有个人踩过它。”

他站起身来，缓步走到壁炉台眼前，站在那儿心不在焉地摆弄着上面的礼拜用品，把它们理整齐——这是他心中焦虑时的一种习惯。

“我的朋友，”他转身对我说，”有人踩过这只杯子，有意把它碾成了粉未，而他们这样干的理由不是因为杯子有士的宁，就是因为——那就严重得多了——杯子里没有士的宁！”

我没有搭腔，这可把我搞糊涂了，可是我知道现在不便要他解释。过了一会，他又振作起精神，继续进行侦查。他从地板上捡起那串钥匙，捏在手上迅速地转了几圈，最后终于选中了雪亮发光的一只。他想用它来打开紫红色公文箱上的锁。它刚好合适，于是他打开了箱子，可是犹豫了一下后，他又把它关了回去，重新锁上，同时，也把这串钥匙，如同原来插在锁上的那把一样，塞进自己的口袋。

“我无权检查这些文件，但是这必须马上进行！”

接着，他又非常仔细地检查了脸盆架的抽屉。在他穿过房间，走向左边的窗口时，深咖啡色地毯上圆圆一滩不十分明显的污渍似乎特别使他发生了兴趣。他蹲下来检查了一会——甚至还扑到近旁闻了闻。

最后，他又倒了几滴可可到试管里，仔细地封上管口，然后掏出一本小小的笔记本。

“在这个房间里，”他说道，一边匆忙地写着：“我们发现了六个值得注意的疑点。要我列举一下吗？还是你说？”

“哦，你来。”我急忙回答说。

“那好吧。第一，一只已被碾成粉未的咖啡杯；第二，一只锁上插着钥匙的公文箱；第三，地板上的一滩污渍。”

“那也许是一些时候以前弄的。”我打断了他的话。

“不，因为它着得出还是湿的，而且还有咖啡的香味。第四，一点深绿色织物——只有一两根纱，但可以认出。”

“啊！”我叫了起来。“就是你夹起放进小封袋那东西。”

“是的，结果也有可能是英格里桑太太自己的一件衣服上钩下来的，那就毫无价值。我们将会弄清楚的。第五，就是这个！”他用一种演剧般的姿势指着写字台旁的地板上一大片蜡烛油说。“这一定是昨天滴下的，要不，会有个好女仆马上用吸油纸和熨斗把它给去掉的，有一回我的一顶最好的帽子——但这和这事无关。”

“很可能是昨天晚上滴下的。当时我们都很焦急不安。不过也有可能是英格里桑太大自己滴的。”

“你们只拿了一支蜡烛到房里来吧？”

“是的。是劳伦斯·卡文迪什拿着的。当时他心神干分不定。象是看到那边有什么东西，”——我朝壁炉台方向指了指——“使他吓得目瞪口呆。”

“这倒有意思了，”波洛马上说，“是呀，这很有启发，”——他的目光扫视着整堵墙壁——“不过这一大片蜡烛油可不是他手上的那支蜡烛滴的，因为你看到了，这是白色的，而劳伦斯先生的那支，现在它还在梳妆台上，是粉红的。另一方面，英格里桑太太房里并没有蜡浊台，只有一盏台灯。”

“那未，”我问道，“你的推断呢？”

对此，我的朋友只给了一个使人有点恼火的回答，他劝我要多用用自己的天赋才能。

“还有第六点呢？”我问道。“我猜是可可的试样了。”

“不，”波洛若有所思地说。“我本来可以把那算作第六点，可是我不那么做。不，这第六点目前我还需要保密。”

他朝整个房间迅速地打量了一遍。”这儿没什么要做了，我想，”——他认真地朝壁炉的死灰看了很久——

“除非这炉火还红着——它灭了。不过说不定碰巧——还红着——让我们来看一看！”

他扒在地上，灵巧地开始把炉灰从炉于里扒到它的围栏里，他干得十分小心。突然，他轻声喊了一声。

“镊子，哈斯丁！”

我赶忙把镊子递给了他，他熟练地夹起了一小片尚未烧尽的纸片。

“瞧，我的朋友，”他大声说道。“你看这是什么？”

我仔细察看了这点纸片。下面就是完全照原样的复制品：

（译文：全部以及）

这可把我难住了。它特别厚，完全不象平常用的信签。突然，我有了一个想法。

“波洛！”我喊道。“这是遗嘱的碎片！”

“一点不错。”

我锐利地朝他看着。

“你没有感到意外？”

“没有，”他严肃他说，“我料到这一点。”

我把纸片递还给他，看着他在公文箱里放好。他象收藏一件宝贝一样地非常仔细，有条有理，我的脑子里一片混乱。这遗嘱的纠纷是什么呢？是谁把它烧毁的呢？是把烛油滴在地上的人吗？显然是的。可是此人是怎么进去的呢？所有门都是里面闩住的呀。

“行了，我的朋友，”波洛轻快他说，“我们得走了。我还要去问那个客厅女仆几个问题哩，她叫多卡斯，是吗？”

我们走进阿弗雷德·英格里桑的房间。在这儿耽搁了一阵子，波洛对它进行了一次短暂的，但是相当全面的搜查。我们就从这个门出来，把它和英格里桑大太的房门都照原先那样锁上。

波洛曾表示希望到楼下的闺房看看，于是我把他带到那儿，然后我去找多卡斯。

可是，当我带着多卡斯回来时，闺房里却空无一人。

“波洛！”我喊道，“你在哪儿呀？”

“我在这儿哪，我的朋友。”

他已走到落地长窗的外面，正站立在那儿，面对着那各种形状的花坛，他显然已沉浸在赞美之中。

“妙极了！”他喃喃地说。“妙极了！多匀称啊！瞧那月牙形；还有那些菱形——那么优美精巧，真使人赏心悦目。这花木的株距也安排得好极了。这是新近栽的吧，早吗？”

“是的，我相信是昨天下午栽的。可是，你进来吧——多卡斯来了。”

“行了，行了！你就让我饱一会儿眼福吧。”

“好的，可是这件事更重要呀。”

“你怎么知道这些美丽的秋海棠不是同等重要呢？”

我耸了耸肩膀。要是他决意采取这样一种态度的话，那实在没有什么好同他辩论的了。

“你不同意？可是这样的事情是有的。好吧，我们进去见见勇敢的多卡斯吧。”

多卡斯站在闺房里，她两手合拢，垂在腹部，她那灰色的头发在白色的帽子下象巨浪似地高高隆起。她是一个忠实的老式女仆的真正典型和化身。

对波洛，她一心抱着一种疑虑的心情，可是他很快就冲破了她的防线。他向前递过一把椅子。

“请坐，小姐。”

“谢谢，先生。”

“你已经跟你的女主人好多年了吧，是么？”

“十年了，先生。”

“时间很长了，而且十分忠于职守。你非常喜爱她，是吗？”

“她对我来说是个很好的女主人，先生。”

“那未你将不会反对回答几个问题了。我得到卡文迪什先生的完全许可，要问问你这几个问题。”

“噢，当然可以，先生。”

“那我就要开始问昨天下午的事情了。你的女主人吵架了吗？”

“是的，先生。可是我不知道我该不该——”多卡斯吞吞吐吐地说。

波洛敏锐地注视着她。

“我的好多卡斯，我需要尽可能详尽地了解那次吵架的每一个细节。你别认为你这是在泄漏怀女主人的秘密。你的女主人不明不白地死了，因此我们必须弄个水落石出——要是我们要为她报仇的话。人死不能复生，但是如果这确是一桩暴行的话，我们一定要把凶手缉拿归案。”

“但愿如此，”多卡斯忿然他说，“那我就不指名道姓了，哼，这幢房子里有了这么一个人，我们当中就没有一个人能受得了。打从他进门后，日子就不好过了。”

波洛等着她把愤慨平静下来，然后重又用他那有条不紊的语气问道：

“嗯，那次吵架怎么样？你最先听到了什么？”

“噢，先生，昨天我碰巧走过过道，在外面——”

“那是什么时候？”

“确切的时间我说不出，先生，不过远不是喝茶的时候。也许是四点钟——或者是还要迟一点。这个，先生，我刚才说了，我碰巧走过，听到房里有很响、很生气的吵闹声。我确实不是有意偷听，不过——嗯，就是这样我停了下来。房门虽然关着，可是女主人的说话声又尖，又清晰，所以她说的我听得很真切。‘你对我澈谎，欺骗我，’她说，可是没听清楚英格里桑先生回答点什么。他的声音比她轻得多——接着她又回答说：‘我养活了你，供你吃，供你穿，你竟敢这样！你一切都得感谢我！你得好好报答我才是！尽给我们丢脸！’他说了什么我又没有听清，可她继续说：‘你说这一套毫无用处。我对自己的义务很清楚。我的主意已经定了。你不要以为我怕公开出去，或者是夫妻间的反目能吓住我。’这时，我觉得我听到他们快要出来，于是我急忙走开了。”

“你能肯定你听到的是英格里桑先生的声音吗？”

“哦，肯定，先生。这会是别人的声音吗？”

“好吧，后来怎么样？”

“后来，我又回到过道里；可是这时已经完全平息了。五点钟时，英格里桑太太按铃要我给她送怀茶——她没有要吃的——到闺房里去。她看上去叫人害怕——脸色苍白，心烦意乱。‘多卡斯，’她说，‘我受了一个很大的打击。’‘我为这感到难过，太太，’我说，‘您喝怀新沏的热茶吧，那样会好一些，太太，”这时候她手中拿着一件东西。我弄不清这是一封信，还是只是一张纸什么的，不过上面写着字，她一直朝它目不转睛地看着，简直象是没法相信那上面写的东西。她仿佛忘掉了我在那儿，自言自语地唧咕着：‘有了这几句话——一切就都改变了。’接着她又对我说：‘决不要相信一个男人，多卡斯，他们不值得相信！’我急忙离开。接着为她送去一杯新沏的浓茶，她向我道了谢。她喝了茶以后对我说，她觉得好一些了。‘我不知道该怎么办，’她说，‘夫妻间的反目是一件可怕的事情，多卡斯。要是可能的话，我也就瞒着不说它了。’这时恰巧卡文迪什大太走了进来，于是她就不再说了。”

“她把那封信，或者是别的什么东西，一直拿在手中吗？”

“是的，先生。”

“后来，她可能把那张东西怎么处置了呢？”

“哦，那我不知道了，先生。我猜想，她把它锁进她的紫红色箱子了。”

“那是她通常用来放重要文件的箱子吗？”

“是的，先生。每天早上她都随身把它带下楼来，每天晚上带上楼去。”

“她什么时候丢失那箱子钥匙的？”

“她是在昨天吃午饭的时候发觉丢失的，她要我仔细找过。为这事她感到非常不安哩。”

“她另外还有一只钥匙吗？”

“哦，是的，先生。”

多卡斯十分好奇地朝波洛注视着，说老实话，我也是如此。老问一只丢失的钥匙是什么意思呢？波洛笑了起来。

“没什么，多卡斯，把事情弄清楚是我的职责。这就是那把丢失的钥匙吗？”他从自己的口袋里掏出从楼上那只公文箱的锁上拔下的钥匙。

多卡斯吃惊地看着，两眼仿佛都要瞪出来了。

“正是这把，先生，一点不错。可是您在哪儿找到它的呀？我到处都找遍了。”

“嗨，你看，那地方昨天没有，今天在了。好了，”我们谈点别的吧，你女主人的衣服里有一件深绿色的吗？’

多卡斯被这意想不到的问题问得有点怔住了。

“没有，先生。”

“你很有把握吗？”

“哦，是的，先生。&

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