eyes wandered round the room—“this boudoir has nothing more to tell us. It did not yield much. Only this.”
He pulled a crumpled envelope out of his pocket, and tossed it over to me. It was rather a curious document. A plain, dirty looking old envelope with a few words scrawled across it, apparently at random. The following is a facsimile of it.
CHAPTER V.
“IT ISN’T STRYCHNINE, IS IT?”
“Where did you find this?” I asked Poirot, in lively curiosity.
“In the waste-paper basket. You recognise the handwriting?”
him. My poor Emily! She was so self-sacrificing—such a noble character. She over-taxed her strength.”
A wave of revulsion swept over me. What a consummate hypocrite the man was!
“I must hurry on,” I said, thankful that he did not ask me whither I was bound.
In a few minutes I was knocking at the door of Leastways Cottage.