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I shrugged my shoulders. If he was going to take the matter that way, it was
no good arguing 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.
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