her some. Now in the opposite corner of the room stood her husband’s desk—locked. She was anxious to find some stamps, and, according to my theory, she tried her own keys in the desk. That one of them fitted I know. She therefore opened the desk, and in searching for the stamps she came across something else—that slip of paper which Dorcas saw in her hand, and which assuredly was never meant for Mrs. Inglethorp’s eyes. On the other hand, Mrs. Cavendish believed that the slip of paper to which her
seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: “Yes, that alters everything—everything.”
Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision.
“Allons!” he said. “We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?”
John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him.