"No, I can't say that I have."

I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour by
remarking:

"Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not intrigue
yourself, my friend."

An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no
time to reply.

Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring
under intense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish
enjoyment of the tragedy.

Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness.

"I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able to
tell me something about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last
night. How many were there? And can you tell me any of the names
and addresses?"

Annie considered.

"There were four letters, sir. One was to Miss Howard, and one
was to Mr. Wells, the lawyer, and the other two I don't think I
remember, sir--oh, yes, one was to Ross's, the caterers in
Tadminster. The other one, I don't remember."

"Think," urged Poirot.