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

           Hisbackwasmuchbent,thoughhewasprobablynotasoldashelooked,buthiseyesweresharpandintelligent,andbeliedhisslowandrathercautiousspeech.

           “Manning,”saidJohn,“thisgentlemanwillputsomequestionstoyouwhichIwantyoutoanswer.”

           “Yessir,”mumbledManning.

           Poirotsteppedforwardbriskly.Manning’seyesweptoverhimwithafaintcontempt.

           “Youwereplantingabedofbegoniasroundbythesouthsideofthehouseyesterdayafternoon,wereyounot,Manning?”

           “Yes,sir,meandWillum.”

           “AndMrs.Inglethorpcametothewindowandcalledyou,didshenot?”

           “Yes,sir,shedid.”

           “Tellmeinyourownwordsexactlywhathappenedafterthat.”

           “Well,sir,nothingmuch.ShejusttoldWillumtogoonhisbicycledowntothevillage,andbringbackaformofwill,orsuch-like—Idon’tknowwhatexactly—shewroteitdownforhim.”

           “Well?”

           “Well,hedid,sir.”

           “Andwhathappenednext?”

           “Wewentonwiththebegonias,sir.”

           “DidnotMrs.Inglethorpcallyouagain?”

           “Yes,sir,bothmeandWillum,shecalled.”

           “Andthen?”

           “Shemadeuscomerightin,andsignournamesatthebottomofalongpaper—underwhereshe’dsigned.”

           “Didyouseeanythingofwhatwaswrittenabovehersignature?”askedPoirotsharply.

           “No,sir,therewasabitofblottingpaperoverthatpart.”

           “Andyousignedwhereshetoldyou?”

           “Yes,sir,firstmeandthenWillum.

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