It was rather a curious document. A plain, dirty
looking old envelope with a few words scrawled across it,
apparently at random. The following is a facsimile of it.
CHAPTER V.
"IT ISN'T STRYCHNINE, IS IT?"
"Where did you find this?" I asked Poirot, in lively curiosity.
"In the waste-paper basket. You recognise the handwriting?"
"Yes, it is Mrs. Inglethorp's. But what does it mean?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"I cannot say--but it is suggestive."
A wild idea flashed across me. Was it possible that Mrs.
Inglethorp's mind was deranged? Had she some fantastic idea of
demoniacal possession? And, if that were so, was it not also
possible that she might have taken her own life?
I was about to expound these theories to Poirot, when his own
words distracted me.
"Come," he said, "now to examine the coffee-cups!"
"My dear Poirot! What on earth is the good of that, now that we
know about the coco?"
"Oh, la la! That miserable coco!" cried Poirot flippantly.
He laughed with apparent enjoyment, raising his arms to heaven in
mock despair, in what I could not but consider the worst possible
taste.
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