on his face that was extraordinary--a curious mingling of terror
and agitation.

"Look, Poirot!" I said.

He leant forward.

"Tiens!" he said. "It is Mr. Mace, from the chemist's shop. He
is coming here."

The young man came to a halt before Leastways Cottage, and, after
hesitating a moment, pounded vigorously at the door.

"A little minute," cried Poirot from the window. "I come."

Motioning to me to follow him, he ran swiftly down the stairs and
opened the door. 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?"