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.

"Not now, not now, mon ami. I have need of reflection. My mind
is in some disorder--which is not well."

For about ten minutes he sat in dead silence, perfectly still,
except for several expressive motions of his eyebrows, and all
the time his eyes grew steadily greener. At last he heaved a
deep sigh.

"It is well. The bad moment has passed. Now all is arranged and
classified. One must never permit confusion. The case is not
clear yet--no. For it is of the most complicated! It puzzles