"Permit me. I locked it, out of precaution, this morning."
"But it's not locked now."
"Impossible!"
"See." And John lifted the lid as he spoke.
"Milles tonnerres!" cried Poirot, dumfounded. "And I--who have
both the keys in my pocket!" He flung himself upon the case.
Suddenly he stiffened. "En voila une affaire! This lock has been
forced."
"What?"
Poirot laid down the case again.
"But who forced it? Why should they? When? But the door was
locked?" These exclamations burst from us disjointedly.
Poirot answered them categorically--almost mechanically.
"Who? That is the question. Why? Ah, if I only knew. When?
Since I was here an hour ago. As to the door being locked, it is
a very ordinary lock. Probably any other of the doorkeys in this
passage would fit it."
We stared at one another blankly. Poirot had walked over to the
mantel-piece. He was outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands,
which from long force of habit were mechanically straightening
the spill vases on the mantel-piece, were shaking violently.
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