Chapter 5 It isn't strict-nine, is it?

Where did you find this, I asked Poirot in lively curiosity?

In the waste paper basket, you recognized the handwriting?

Yes, it's Mrs. Inglethorps.

But what does it mean?

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

I cannot say, but it is suggestive.

A wild idea flashed across me.

Was it possible that Mrs. Inglethorps' mind was deranged?

Had she some fantastic idea of demon-iacal possession?

And if that were so, was it not also possible that she might have taken her own life?

I was about to expound these theories to Poirot when his own words distracted me.

Some he said, now to examine the coffee cups.

My dear Poirot, what on earth is the good of that now that we know about the cocoa?

Ola-la, that miserable cocoa cried Poirot flippantly.

He laughed with apparent enjoyment, raising his arms to heaven in mock despair in what

I could not but consider the worst possible taste.

In any way, I said, with increasing coldness.

As Mrs. Inglethorps took her coffee upstairs with her, I do not see what you expect to find,

unless you consider it likely that we shall discover a packet of strict wine on the coffee

tray.

Poirot was sobered at once.

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