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perhaps, too much.
Ever since the early hours of the morning, John had been hard at work,
sending telegrams--one of the first had gone to Evelyn Howard--writing
notices for the papers, and generally occupying himself with the melancholy
duties that a death entails.
"May I ask how things are proceeding?" he said. "Do your investigations
point to my mother having died a natural death--or--or must we prepare
ourselves for the worst?"
"I think, Mr. Cavendish," said Poirot gravely, "that you would do well not to
buoy yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell me the views of the
other members of the family?"
"
My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss over nothing.
He says that everything points to its being a simple case of heart failure."
"
He does, does he? That is very interesting--very interesting," murmured
Poirot softly. "And Mrs. Cavendish?"
A faint cloud passed over John's face.
"I have not the least idea what my wife's views on the subject are."
The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train. John broke the
rather awkward silence by saying with a slight effort:
"
I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has returned?"
Poirot bent his head.
It's an awkward position for all of us. Of course one has to treat him as
"
usual--but, hang it all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eat with a
possible murderer!"
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
"I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for you, Mr. Cavendish. I
would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for not returning
last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?"
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