This is an exact reproduction of it:--
I was puzzled. It was unusually thick, quite unlike ordinary
notepaper. Suddenly an idea struck me.
"Poirot!" I cried. "This is a fragment of a will!"
"Exactly."
I looked up at him sharply.
"You are not surprised?"
"No," he said gravely, "I expected it."
I relinquished the piece of paper, and watched him put it away in
his case, with the same methodical care that he bestowed on
everything. My brain was in a whirl. What was this complication
of a will? Who had destroyed it? The person who had left the
candle grease on the floor? Obviously. But how had anyone gained
admission? All the doors had been bolted on the inside.
"Now, my friend," said Poirot briskly, "we will go. I should
like to ask a few questions of the parlourmaid--Dorcas, her name
is, is it not?"
We passed through Alfred Inglethorp's room, and Poirot delayed
long enough to make a brief but fairly comprehensive examination
of it. We went out through that door, locking both it and that
of Mrs.
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