everything. My brain was in a whirl. What was this complication
of a will? Who had destroyed it? The person who had left the
candle grease on the floor? Obviously. But how had anyone gained
admission? All the doors had been bolted on the inside.

"Now, my friend," said Poirot briskly, "we will go. I should
like to ask a few questions of the parlourmaid--Dorcas, her name
is, is it not?"

We passed through Alfred Inglethorp's room, and Poirot delayed
long enough to make a brief but fairly comprehensive examination
of it. We went out through that door, locking both it and that
of Mrs. Inglethorp's room as before.

I took him down to the boudoir which he had expressed a wish to
see, and went myself in search of Dorcas.

When I returned with her, however, the boudoir was empty.

"Poirot," I cried, "where are you?"

"I am here, my friend."

He had stepped outside the French window, and was standing,
apparently lost in admiration, before the various shaped flower
beds.

"Admirable!" he murmured. "Admirable! What symmetry! Observe
that crescent; and those diamonds--their neatness rejoices the
eye. The spacing of the plants, also, is perfect. It has been