"You brought only one candle into the room?"

"Yes. Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he was very
upset. He seemed to see something over here"--I indicated the
mantelpiece--"that absolutely paralysed him."

"That is interesting," said Poirot quickly. "Yes, it is
suggestive"--his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall--"but
it was not his candle that made this great patch, for you
perceive that this is white grease; whereas Monsieur Lawrence's
candle, which is still on the dressing-table, is pink. On the
other hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had no candlestick in the room, only
a reading-lamp."

"Then," I said, "what do you deduce?"

To which my friend only made a rather irritating reply, urging me
to use my own natural faculties.

"And the sixth point?" I asked. "I suppose it is the sample of
coco."

"No," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I might have included that in
the six, but I did not. No, the sixth point I will keep to
myself for the present."

He looked quickly round the room. "There is nothing more to be
done here, I think, unless"--he stared earnestly and long at the
dead ashes in the grate. "The fire burns--and it destroys. But