"IT ISN'T STRYCHNINE, IS IT?"
was it? I do not usually label myself as dense, but I must confess that nothing out of the ordinary had attracted my attention.
In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared.
"Mr. Wells to see you, sir," she said to John.
I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer to whom Mrs. Inglethorp had written the night before.
John rose immediately.
"Show him into my study." Then he turned to us. "My mother's lawyer," he explained. And in a lower voice: "He is also Coroner—you understand. Perhaps you would like to come with me?"
We acquiesced and followed him out of the room. John strode on ahead and I took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot:
"There will be an inquest then?"
Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so that my curiosity was aroused.
"What is it? You are not attending to what I say."
"It is true, my friend. I am much worried."
"Why?"
"Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee."
"What? You cannot be serious?"
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