ing 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. "Voila! 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 V. "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 examin