ose witnesses were mistaken."

I was puzzled. The man spoke with such quiet assurance that I was
staggered. I looked at Poirot. There was an expression of exultation
on his face which I could not understand. Was he at last convinced of
Alfred Inglethorp's guilt?

"Mr. Inglethorp," said the Coroner, "you have heard your wife's dying
words repeated here. Can you explain them in any way?"

"Certainly I can."

"You can?"

"It seems to me very simple. The room was dimly lighted. Dr. Bauerstein
is much of my height and build, and, like me, wears a beard. In the dim
light, and suffering as she was, my poor wife mistook him for me."

"Ah!" murmured Poirot to himself. "But it is an idea, that!"

"You think it is true?" I whispered.

"I do not say that. But it is truly an ingenious supposition."

"You read my wife's last words as an accusation"--Inglethorp was
continuing--"they were, on the contrary, an appeal to me."

The Coroner reflected a moment, then he said:

"I believe, Mr. Inglethorp, that you yourself poured out the coffee, and
took it to your wife that evening?"

"I poured it out, yes. But I did not take it to her. I meant to do so,
but I was told that a friend was at the hall door, so I laid down the
coffee on the hall table. When I came through the hall again a few
minutes later, it was gone."

This statement might, or might not, be true, but it did not seem to me
to improve matters much for Inglethorp. In any case, he had had ample
time to introduce the poison.

At that point, Poirot nudged me gently, indicating two men who
were sitting together near the door. One was a little, sharp, dark,
ferret-faced man, the other was tall and fair.

I questioned Poirot mutely. He put his lips to my ear.

"Do you know who that little man is?"

I shook my head.

"That is Detective Inspector James Japp of Scotland Yard--Jimmy Japp.
The other man is from Scotland Yard too. Things are moving quickly, my
friend."

I stared at the two men intently. There was certainly nothing of the
policeman about them. I should never have suspected them of being
official personages.

I was still staring, when I was startled and recalled by the verdict
being given:

"Wilful Murder against some person or persons unknown."

CHAPTER VII. POIROT PAYS HIS DEBTS

As we came out of the Stylites Arms, Poirot drew me aside by a gentle
pressure of the arm. I understood his object. He was waiting for the
Scotland Yard men.