question. Would the prisoner, in the hottest week of a hot summer, be likely to go to a drawer containing winter underclothing. Yes, or no?”
“No.”
“In that case, is it not possible that the articles in question might have been put there by a third person, and that the prisoner was quite unaware of their presence?”
“I should not think it likely.”
“But it is possible?”
“Yes.”
“That is all.”
More evidence followed. Evidence as to the financial difficulties in which the prisoner had found himself
Poirot, who was watching me intently, gave a sigh.
“Come, my friend,” he said, changing the subject, “apart from Mr. Inglethorp, how did the evidence at the inquest strike you?”
“Oh, pretty much what I expected.”
“Did nothing strike you as peculiar about it?”
My thoughts flew to Mary Cavendish, and I hedged: