As it was, she realized her danger, but not the manner of it.”
In the deathly silence, Poirot pieced together the slips of paper and, clearing his throat, read:
“‘Dearest Evelyn:
‘You will be anxious at hearing nothing. It is all right—only it will be to-night instead of last night. You understand. There’s a good time coming once the old woman is dead and out of the way. No one can possibly bring home the crime to me. That idea of yours about the bromides was a stroke of genius! But we must be very circumspect. A false step–-‘
much the same position, so I used her name instead.”
“Still, Mrs. Inglethorp might have done so. Why, that will, made on the afternoon of her death may–-”
But Poirot’s shake of the head was so energetic that I stopped.
“No, my friend. I have certain little ideas of my own about that will. But I can