"You will breakfast with us, Monsieur Poirot?"
Poirot acquiesced. I observed John. Already he was almost
restored to his normal self. The shock of the events of the last
night had upset him temporarily, but his equable poise soon swung
back to the normal. He was a man of very little imagination, in
sharp contrast with his brother, who had, perhaps, too much.
Ever since the early hours of the morning, John had been hard at
work, sending telegrams--one of the first had gone to Evelyn
Howard--writing notices for the papers, and generally occupying
himself with the melancholy duties that a death entails.
"May I ask how things are proceeding?" he said. "Do your
investigations point to my mother having died a natural death--
or--or must we prepare ourselves for the worst?"
"I think, Mr. Cavendish," said Poirot gravely, "that you would do
well not to buoy yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell
me the views of the other members of the family?"
"My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss over
nothing.
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