Chapter V. “It Isn’t Strychnine, Is It?”

           “Wheredidyoufindthis?”IaskedPoirot,inlivelycuriosity.

           “Inthewaste-paperbasket.Yourecognisethehandwriting?”

           “Yes,itisMrs.Inglethorp’s.Butwhatdoesitmean?”

           Poirotshruggedhisshoulders.

           “Icannotsay—butitissuggestive.”

           Awildideaflashedacrossme.WasitpossiblethatMrs.Inglethorp’smindwasderanged?Hadshesomefantasticideaofdemoniacalpossession?And,ifthatwereso,wasitnotalsopossiblethatshemighthavetakenherownlife?

           IwasabouttoexpoundthesetheoriestoPoirot,whenhisownwordsdistractedme.

           “Come,”hesaid,“nowtoexaminethecoffee-cups!”

           “MydearPoirot!Whatonearthisthegoodofthat,nowthatweknowaboutthecocoa?”

           “Oh,làlà!Thatmiserablecocoa!”criedPoirotflippantly.

           Helaughedwithapparentenjoyment,raisinghisarmstoheaveninmockdespair,inwhatIcouldnotbutconsidertheworstpossibletaste.

           “And,anyway,”Isaid,withincreasingcoldness,“asMrs.Inglethorptookhercoffeeupstairswithher,Idonotseewhatyouexpecttofind,unlessyouconsideritlikelythatweshalldiscoverapacketofstrychnineonthecoffeetray!”

           Poirotwassoberedatonce.

           “Come,come,myfriend,”hesaid,slippinghisarmsthroughmine.“Nevousfâchezpas!Allowmetointerestmyselfinmycoffee-cups,andIwillrespectyourcocoa.There!Isitabargain?”

           HewassoquaintlyhumorousthatIwasforcedtolaugh;andwewenttogethertothedrawing-room,wherethecoffee-cupsandtrayremainedundisturbedaswehadleftthem.