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He was so quaintly humorous that I was forced to laugh; and we went

together to the drawing-room, where the coffee-cups and tray remained

undisturbed as we had left them.

Poirot made me recapitulate the scene of the night before, listening very

carefully, and verifying the position of the various cups.

So Mrs. Cavendish stood by the tray--and poured out. Yes. Then she came

across to the window where you sat with Mademoiselle Cynthia. Yes. Here

are the three cups. And the cup on the mantel-piece, half drunk, that would

be Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's. And the one on the tray?"

"John Cavendish's. I saw him put it down there."

"Good. One, two, three, four, five--but where, then, is the cup of Mr.

Inglethorp?"

He does not take coffee."

"Then all are accounted for. One moment, my friend."

With infinite care, he took a drop or two from the grounds in each cup,

sealing them up in separate test tubes, tasting each in turn as he did so. His

physiognomy underwent a curious change. An expression gathered there

that I can only describe as half puzzled, and half relieved.

"Bien!" he said at last. "It is evident! I had an idea--but clearly I was

mistaken. Yes, altogether I was mistaken. Yet it is strange. But no matter!"

And, with a characteristic shrug, he dismissed whatever it was that was

worrying him from his mind. I could have told him from the beginning that

this obsession of his over the coffee was bound to end in a blind alley, but I

restrained my tongue. After all, though he was old, Poirot had been a great

man in his day.

"Breakfast is ready," said John Cavendish, coming in from the hall. "You will

breakfast with us, Monsieur Poirot?"

Poirot acquiesced. I observed John. Already he was almost restored to his

normal self. The shock of the events of the last night had upset him

temporarily, but his equable poise soon swung back to the normal. He was a

man of very little imagination, in sharp contrast with his brother, who had,

The Mysterious Affair at Styles