Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black
sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful
noise, like some great giant sighing.
We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the
knowledge came to us that something was wrong.
Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing
her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the
background, all eyes and ears.
"Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you--"
"What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once."
"It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him--they've
arrested Mr. Cavendish!"
"Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped.
I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes.
"No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence--Mr. John."
Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against
me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in
Poirot's eyes.
CHAPTER XI.
THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION
The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took
place two months later.
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