” ‘Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.’ Are you sure you don’t know what it means?” I asked him earnestly.
He shook his head.
“No,” he said musingly, “I don’t. I—I wish I did.”
The boom of the gong sounded from the house, and we went in together. Poirot had been asked by John to remain to lunch, and was already seated at the table.
By tacit consent, all mention of the tragedy was barred. We conversed on the war, and other outside topics. But after the cheese and biscuits had
“Well–-” I considered. “One must look at it logically.”
“True.”
“I should put it this way. The doors were bolted—our own eyes have told us that—yet the presence of the candle grease on the floor, and the destruction of the will, prove that during the night some one entered the room. You agree so far?”