Загадочное происшествие в Стайлзе

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

           

           “Onlyherpowders?”

           TheflushdeepenedasCynthiareplied:

           “Oh,yes,Ididmakeupsomesleepingpowdersforheronce.”

           “These?”

           Poirotproducedtheemptyboxwhichhadcontainedpowders.

           Shenodded.

           “Canyoutellmewhattheywere?Sulphonal?Veronal?”

           “No,theywerebromidepowders.”

           “Ah!Thankyou,mademoiselle;goodmorning.”

           Aswewalkedbrisklyawayfromthehouse,Iglancedathimmorethanonce.Ihadoftenbeforenoticedthat,ifanythingexcitedhim,hiseyesturnedgreenlikeacat’s.Theywereshininglikeemeraldsnow.

           “Myfriend,”hebrokeoutatlast,“Ihavealittleidea,averystrange,andprobablyutterlyimpossibleidea.Andyet—itfitsin.”

           Ishruggedmyshoulders.IprivatelythoughtthatPoirotwasrathertoomuchgiventothesefantasticideas.Inthiscase,surely,thetruthwasonlytooplainandapparent.

           “Sothatistheexplanationoftheblanklabelonthebox,”Iremarked.“Verysimple,asyousaid.IreallywonderthatIdidnotthinkofitmyself.”

           Poirotdidnotappeartobelisteningtome.

           “Theyhavemadeonemorediscovery,là-bas,”heobserved,jerkinghisthumboverhisshoulderinthedirectionofStyles.“Mr.Wellstoldmeasweweregoingupstairs.”

           “Whatwasit?”

           “Lockedupinthedeskintheboudoir,theyfoundawillofMrs.Inglethorp’s,datedbeforehermarriage,leavingherfortunetoAlfredInglethorp.Itmusthavebeenmadejustatthetimetheywereengaged.ItcamequiteasasurprisetoWells—andtoJohnCavendishalso.

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