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soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over her slender
hands, she looked very beautiful. When she chose, however, her face could
be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent, hardly opening her
lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great strength of her
personality was dominating us all.
And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, I thought.
The heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. I asked her if
she were feeling ill, and she answered frankly:
"Yes, I've got the most beastly headache."
"Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?" said Poirot solicitously. "It will
revive you. It is unparalleled for the mal de tete." He jumped up and took
her cup.
"
"
"
"
No sugar," said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the sugar-tongs.
No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, eh?"
No, I never take it in coffee."
Sacre!" murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back the replenished
cup.
Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I saw that his
face was working with suppressed excitement, and his eyes were as green as
a cat's. He had heard or seen something that had affected him strongly--but
what was it? I do not usually label myself as dense, but I must confess that
nothing out of the ordinary had attracted my attention.
In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared.
"Mr. Wells to see you, sir," she said to John.
I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer to whom Mrs. Inglethorp
had written the night before.
John rose immediately.
"Show him into my study." Then he turned to us. "My mother's lawyer," he
explained. And in a lower voice: "He is also Coroner--you understand.
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