"No."

"Only her powders?"

The flush deepened as Cynthia replied:

"Oh, yes, I did make up some sleeping powders for her once."

"These?"

Poirot produced the empty box which had contained powders.

She nodded.

"Can you tell me what they were? Sulphonal? Veronal?"

"No, they were bromide powders."

"Ah! Thank you, mademoiselle; good morning."

As we walked briskly away from the house, I glanced at him more
than once. I had often before noticed that, if anything excited
him, his eyes turned green like a cat's. They were shining like
emeralds now.

"My friend," he broke out at last, "I have a little idea, a very
strange, and probably utterly impossible idea. And yet--it fits
in."

I shrugged my shoulders. I privately thought that Poirot was