I was puzzled. The man spoke with such quiet assurance that I
was staggered. I looked at Poirot. There was an expression of
exultation on his face which I could not understand. Was he at
last convinced of Alfred Inglethorp's guilt?

"Mr. Inglethorp," said the Coroner, "you have heard your wife's
dying words repeated here. Can you explain them in any way?"

"Certainly I can."

"You can?"

"It seems to me very simple. The room was dimly lighted. Dr.
Bauerstein is much of my height and build, and, like me, wears a
beard. In the dim light, and suffering as she was, my poor wife
mistook him for me."

"Ah!" murmured Poirot to himself. "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?"