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

           Ofcourseonehastotreathimasusual—but,hangitall,one’sgorgedoesriseatsittingdowntoeatwithapossiblemurderer!”

           Poirotnoddedsympathetically.

           “Iquiteunderstand.Itisaverydifficultsituationforyou,Mr.Cavendish.Iwouldliketoaskyouonequestion.Mr.Inglethorp’sreasonfornotreturninglastnightwas,Ibelieve,thathehadforgottenthelatch-key.Isnotthatso?”

           “Yes.”

           “Isupposeyouarequitesurethatthelatch-keywasforgotten—thathedidnottakeitafterall?”

           “Ihavenoidea.Ineverthoughtoflooking.Wealwayskeepitinthehalldrawer.I’llgoandseeifit’stherenow.”

           Poirothelduphishandwithafaintsmile.

           “No,no,Mr.Cavendish,itistoolatenow.Iamcertainthatyouwouldfindit.IfMr.Inglethorpdidtakeit,hehashadampletimetoreplaceitbynow.”

           “Butdoyouthink——”

           “Ithinknothing.Ifanyonehadchancedtolookthismorningbeforehisreturn,andseenitthere,itwouldhavebeenavaluablepointinhisfavour.Thatisall.”

           Johnlookedperplexed.

           “Donotworry,”saidPoirotsmoothly.“Iassureyouthatyouneednotletittroubleyou.Sinceyouaresokind,letusgoandhavesomebreakfast.”

           Everyonewasassembledinthedining-room.Underthecircumstances,wewerenaturallynotacheerfulparty.Thereactionafterashockisalwaystrying,andIthinkwewereallsufferingfromit.

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