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Chapter V. “It Isn’t Strychnine, Is It?”
”
TheyoungmancametoahaltbeforeLeastwaysCottage,and,afterhesitatingamoment,poundedvigorouslyatthedoor.
“Alittleminute,”criedPoirotfromthewindow.“Icome.”
Motioningtometofollowhim,heranswiftlydownthestairsandopenedthedoor.Mr.Macebeganatonce.
“Oh,Mr.Poirot,I’msorryfortheinconvenience,butIheardthatyou’djustcomebackfromtheHall?”
“Yes,wehave.”
Theyoungmanmoistenedhisdrylips.Hisfacewasworkingcuriously.
“It’salloverthevillageaboutoldMrs.Inglethorpdyingsosuddenly.Theydosay—”heloweredhisvoicecautiously—“thatit’spoison?”
Poirot’sfaceremainedquiteimpassive.
“Onlythedoctorscantellusthat,Mr.Mace.”
“Yes,exactly—ofcourse——”Theyoungmanhesitated,andthenhisagitationwastoomuchforhim.HeclutchedPoirotbythearm,andsankhisvoicetoawhisper:“Justtellmethis,Mr.Poirot,itisn’t—itisn’tstrychnine,isit?”
IhardlyheardwhatPoirotreplied.Somethingevidentlyofanon-committalnature.Theyoungmandeparted,andasheclosedthedoorPoirot’seyesmetmine.
“Yes,”hesaid,noddinggravely.“Hewillhaveevidencetogiveattheinquest.”
Wewentslowlyupstairsagain.Iwasopeningmylips,whenPoirotstoppedmewithagestureofhishand.
“Notnow,notnow,monami.Ihaveneedofreflection.Mymindisinsomedisorder—whichisnotwell.
