look this morning before his
return, and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in his
favour. That is all."

John looked perplexed.

"Do not worry," said Poirot smoothly. "I assure you that you need not
let it trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us go and have some
breakfast."

Every one was assembled in the dining-room. Under the circumstances,
we were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is
always trying, and I think we were all suffering from it. Decorum and
good breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should be much as
usual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really a
matter of great difficulty. There were no red eyes, no signs of secretly
indulged grief. I felt that I was right in my opinion that Dorcas was
the person most affected by the personal side of the tragedy.

I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in a
manner that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know that
we suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not be unaware of the
fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring of fear,
or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely the
suspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a marked
man.

But did every one suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I watched her
as she sat at the head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. In
her soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over her
slender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she chose, however, her
face could be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent,
hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great
strength of her personality was dominating us all.

And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, I
thought. The heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. I
asked her if she were feeling ill, and she answered frankly:

"Yes, I've got the most beastly headache."

"Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?" said Poirot solicitously.
"It will revive you. It is unparalleled for the mal de tete." He jumped
up and took her cup.

"No sugar," said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the sugar-tongs.

"No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, eh?"

"No, I never take it in coffee."

"Sacre!" murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back the replenished
cup.

Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at