Inglethorp's."
"Ah!" He tried the roll top tentatively. "Locked. But perhaps
one of Mrs. Inglethorp's keys would open it." He tried several,
twisting and turning them with a practiced hand, and finally
uttering an ejaculation of satisfaction. "Voila! It is not the
key, but it will open it at a pinch." He slid back the roll top,
and ran a rapid eye over the neatly filed papers. To my
surprise, he did not examine them, merely remarking approvingly
as he relocked the desk: "Decidedly, he is a man of method, this
Mr. Inglethorp!"
A "man of method" was, in Poirot's estimation, the highest praise
that could be bestowed on any individual.
I felt that my friend was not what he had been as he rambled on
disconnectedly:
"There were no stamps in his desk, but there might have been, eh,
mon ami? There might have been? Yes"--his eyes wandered round the
room--"this boudoir has nothing more to tell us. It did not
yield much. Only this."
He pulled a crumpled envelope out of his pocket, and tossed it
over to me.
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