come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my little
case until I need it."

He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an
ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted
up, and precipitated the despatch-case on the floor.

"Eh voila une table!" cried Poirot. "Ah, my friend, one may live
in a big house and yet have no comfort."

After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search.

A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the
writing-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took out
the key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. I saw
nothing peculiar, however. It was an ordinary key of the Yale
type, with a bit of twisted wire through the handle.

Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in,
assuring himself that the bolt had really been shot. Then he
went to the door opposite leading into Cynthia's room. That door
was also bolted, as I had stated. However, he went to the length
of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it several times; this
he did with the utmost precaution against making any noise.
Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his
attention. He examined it carefully, and then, nimbly whipping
out a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out some
minute particle which he carefully sealed up in a tiny envelope.

On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a spirit lamp and a