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hands."
Amid breathless excitement, he held out three thin strips of paper.
A letter in the murderer's own hand-writing, mes amis! Had it been a little
"
clearer in its terms, it is possible that Mrs. Inglethorp, warned in time,
would have escaped. As it was, she realized her danger, but not the manner
of it."
In the deathly silence, Poirot pieced together the slips of paper and, clearing
his throat, read:
"'Dearest Evelyn:
'You will be anxious at hearing nothing. It is all right--only it will be to-night
instead of last night. You understand. There's a good time coming once the
old woman is dead and out of the way. No one can possibly bring home the
crime to me. That idea of yours about the bromides was a stroke of genius!
But we must be very circumspect. A false step----'
"
Here, my friends, the letter breaks off. Doubtless the writer was
interrupted; but there can be no question as to his identity. We all know this
hand-writing and----"
A howl that was almost a scream broke the silence.
"
You devil! How did you get it?"
A chair was overturned. Poirot skipped nimbly aside. A quick movement on
his part, and his assailant fell with a crash.
"
Messieurs, mesdames," said Poirot, with a flourish, "let me introduce you to
the murderer, Mr. Alfred Inglethorp!"
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