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 faculti