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 voila une affaire! This lock has been forced."

"What?"

Poirot laid down the