is broken in two places; they lie there as they fell. But see, the coffee-cup is absolutely smashed to powder.”
“Well,” I said wearily, “I suppose some one must have stepped on it.”
“Exactly,” said Poirot, in an odd voice. “Some one stepped on it.”
He rose from his knees, and walked slowly across to the mantelpiece, where he stood abstractedly fingering the ornaments, and straightening them—a trick of his when he was agitated.
“Mon ami,” he said, turning to me, “somebody stepped on that cup,
My evening was utterly and entirely spoilt by the presence of Dr. Bauerstein. It seemed to me the man would never go. He rose at last, however, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’ll walk down to the village with you,” said Mr. Inglethorp. “I must see our agent over those estate accounts.” He turned