much of my height and build, and, like me, wears a beard. In the dim light, and suffering as she was, my poor wife mistook him for me.”
“Ah!” murmured Poirot to himself. “But it is an idea, that!”
“You think it is true?” I whispered.
“I do not say that. But it is truly an ingenious supposition.”
“You read my wife’s last words as an accusation”—Inglethorp was continuing—“they were, on the contrary, an appeal to me.”
The Coroner reflected a moment, then he said:
“I believe, Mr. Inglethorp, that
could not be unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring of fear, or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a marked man.
But did every one suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish?