There was a tremor in his
voice, and he had gone very pale.
"In consequence of that quarrel, your mother very suddenly and
hurriedly makes a new will. The contents of that will we shall
never know. She told no one of its provisions. This morning, no
doubt, she would have consulted me on the subject--but she had no
chance. The will disappears, and she takes its secret with her
to her grave. Cavendish, I much fear there is no coincidence
there. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that the
facts are very suggestive."
"Suggestive, or not," interrupted John, "we are most grateful to
Monsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we
should never have known of this will. I suppose, I may not ask
you, monsieur, what first led you to suspect the fact?"
Poirot smiled and answered:
"A scribbled over old envelope, and a freshly planted bed of
begonias."
John, I think, would have pressed his questions further, but at
that moment the loud purr of a motor was audible, and we all
turned to the window as it swept past.
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