"But it is an idea, that!"
"You think it is true?" I whispered.
"I do not say that. But it is truly an ingenious supposition."
"You read my wife's last words as an accusation"--Inglethorp was
continuing--"they were, on the contrary, an appeal to me."
The Coroner reflected a moment, then he said:
"I believe, Mr. Inglethorp, that you yourself poured out the
coffee, and took it to your wife that evening?"
"I poured it out, yes. But I did not take it to her. I meant to
do so, but I was told that a friend was at the hall door, so I
laid down the coffee on the hall table. When I came through the
hall again a few minutes later, it was gone."
This statement might, or might not, be true, but it did not seem
to me to improve matters much for Inglethorp. In any case, he
had had ample time to introduce the poison.
At that point, Poirot nudged me gently, indicating two men who
were sitting together near the door. One was a little, sharp,
dark, ferret-faced man, the other was tall and fair.
I questioned Poirot mutely.
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