Poirot drew out the small bunch of keys.
“Permit me. I locked it, out of precaution, this morning.”
“But it’s not locked now.”
“Impossible!”
“See.” And John lifted the lid as he spoke.
“Milles tonnerres!” cried Poirot, dumfounded. “And I—who have both the keys in my pocket!” He flung himself upon the case. Suddenly he stiffened. “En voila une affaire! This lock has been forced.”
“What?”
Poirot laid down the case again.
“But who forced it? Why should they? When? But the door was locked?” These exclamations burst from us disjointedly.
at it yesterday afternoon. But come in—Dorcas is here.”
“Eh bien, eh bien! Do not grudge me a moment’s satisfaction of the eye.”
“Yes, but this affair is more important.”
“And how do you know that these fine begonias are not of equal importance?”
I shrugged my shoulders. There was really no arguing with him if he chose to take that line.