"IT ISN'T STRYCHNINE, IS IT?"
"A little minute," cried Poirot from the window. "I come."
Motioning to me to follow him, he ran swiftly down the stairs and opened the door. Mr. Mace began at once.
"Oh, Mr. Poirot, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I heard that you'd just come back from the Hall?"
"Yes, we have."
The young man moistened his dry lips. His face was working curiously.
"It's all over the village about old Mrs. Inglethorp dying so suddenly. They do say" he lowered his voice cautiously—"that it's poison?"
Poirot's face remained quite impassive.
"Only the doctors can tell us that, Mr. Mace."
"Yes, exactly—of course" The young man hesitated, and then his agitation was too much for him. He clutched Poirot by the arm, and sank his voice to a whisper: "Just tell me this, Mr. Poirot, it isn't—it isn't strychnine, is it?"
I hardly heard what Poirot replied. Something evidently of a non-committal nature. The young man departed, and as he closed the door Poirot's eyes met mine.
"Yes," he said, nodding gravely. "He will have evidence to give at the inquest."
We went slowly upstairs again. I was opening
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