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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 examine the coffee-cups!"
My dear Poirot! What on earth is the good of that, now that we know about
the coco?"
"Oh, la la! That miserable coco!" cried Poirot flippantly.
He laughed with apparent enjoyment, raising his arms to heaven in mock
despair, in what I could not but consider the worst possible taste.
"And, anyway," I said, with increasing coldness, "as Mrs. Inglethorp took her
coffee upstairs with her, I do not see what you expect to find, unless you
consider it likely that we shall discover a packet of strychnine on the coffee
tray!"
Poirot was sobered at once.
"Come, come, my friend," he said, slipping his arms through mine. "Ne vous
fachez pas! Allow me to interest myself in my coffee-cups, and I will respect
your coco. There! Is it a bargain?"
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