Mr. Mace began at once.
"Oh, Mr. Poirot, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I heard
that you'd just come back from the Hall?"
"Yes, we have."
The young man moistened his dry lips. His face was working
curiously.
"It's all over the village about old Mrs. Inglethorp dying so
suddenly. They do say--" he lowered his voice cautiously--"that
it's poison?"
Poirot's face remained quite impassive.
"Only the doctors can tell us that, Mr. Mace."
"Yes, exactly--of course----" The young man hesitated, and then
his agitation was too much for him. He clutched Poirot by the
arm, and sank his voice to a whisper: "Just tell me this, Mr.
Poirot, it isn't--it isn't strychnine, is it?"
I hardly heard what Poirot replied. Something evidently of a
non-committal nature. The young man departed, and as he closed
the door Poirot's eyes met mine.
"Yes," he said, nodding gravely. "He will have evidence to give
at the inquest."
We went slowly upstairs again. I was opening my lips, when
Poirot stopped me with a gesture of his hand.
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