"What did she do with it afterwards?"

"Well, sir, she slipped it into a long envelope, and put it
inside a sort of purple box that was standing on the desk."

"What time was it when she first called you?"

"About four, I should say, sir."

"Not earlier? Couldn't it have been about half-past three?"

"No, I shouldn't say so, sir. It would be more likely to be a
bit after four--not before it."

"Thank you, Manning, that will do," said Poirot pleasantly.

The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manning
lifted a finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backed
cautiously out of the window.

We all looked at each other.

"Good heavens!" murmured John. "What an extraordinary
coincidence."

"How--a coincidence?"

"That my mother should have made a will on the very day of her
death!"