was. But it was only her purse they were after. Her life was safe enough. But along comes Mr. Alfred Inglethorp—and within two months—hey presto!”
“Believe me, Miss Howard,” said Poirot very earnestly, “if Mr. Inglethorp is the man, he shall not escape me. On my honour, I will hang him as high as Haman!”
“That’s better,” said Miss Howard more enthusiastically.
“But I must ask you to trust me. Now your help may be very valuable to me. I will tell you why. Because, in all this house of mourning, yours are the only eyes that have wept.”
“Poirot!” I cried. “This is a fragment of a will!”
“Exactly.”
I looked up at him sharply.
“You are not surprised?”
“No,” he said gravely, “I expected it.”
I relinquished the piece of paper, and watched him put it away in his case, with the same methodical care that he bestowed on everything. My