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I will forget it.' That way lies confusion! Everything matters.”
    “I know. You always told me that. That's why I have gone into all the details of this
     thing whether they seemed to me relevant or not.”
    “And I am pleased with you. You have a good memory, and you have given me the facts
     faithfully. Of the order in which you present them, I say nothing - truly, it is
     deplorable! But I make allowances - you are upset. To that I attribute the circumstance
     that you have omitted one fact of paramount importance.”
    “What is that?” I asked.
    “You have not told me if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night.”
    I stared at him. Surely the war had affected the little man's brain. He was carefully
     engaged in brushing his coat before putting it on, and seemed wholly engrossed in the task.
    “I don't remember,” I said. “And, anyway, I don't see - - ”
    “You do not see? But it is of the first importance.”
    “I can't see why,” I said, rather nettled. “As far as I can remember, she didn't eat much.
     She was obviously upset, and it had taken her appetite away. That was only natural.”
    “Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “it was only natural.”
    He opened a drawer, and took out a small despatch-case, then turned to me. “Now I am
     ready. We will proceed to the chateau, and study matters on the spot. Excuse me, mon ami,
     you dressed in haste, and your tie is on one side. Permit me.” With a deft gesture, he
     rearranged it.
    “Ca y est! Now, shall we start?”
    We hurried up the village, and turned in at the lodge gates. Poirot stopped for a moment,
     and gazed sorrowfully over the beautiful expanse of park, still glittering with morning
     dew.
    “So beautiful, so beautiful, and yet, the poor family, plunged in sorrow, prostrated with
     grief.”
    He looked at me keenly as he spoke, and I was aware that I reddened under his prolonged
     gaze.
    Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs. Inglethorp's death so great? I
     realized that there was an emotional lack in the atmosphere. The dead woman had not the
     gift of commanding love. Her death was a shock and a distress, but she would not be
     passionately regretted.
    Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded his head gravely. “No, you are right,” he
     said, “it is not as though there was a blood tie. She has been kind and generous to these
     Cavendishes, but she was not their own mother. Blood tells - always remember that - blood
     tells.”
    “Poirot,” I said, “I wish you would tell me why you wanted to know if Mrs. Inglethorp ate
     well last night? I have been turning it over in my mind, but I can't see how it has
     anything to do with the matter?”
    He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finally he said: “I do not mind
     telling you - though, as you know, it is not my habit to explain until the end is reached.
     The present contention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably
     administered in her coffee.”
    “Yes?”
    “Well, what time was the coffee served?”
    “About eight o'clock.”
    “Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight - certainly not much later. Well,
     strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in
     about an hour. Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp's case, the symptoms do not manifest themselves
     until five o'clock the next morning: nine hours! But a heavy meal, taken at about the same
     time as the poison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent. Still, it is a
     possibility to be taken into account. But, according to you, she ate very little for
     supper, and yet the symptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a
     curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the
     meantime, remember it.”
    As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard.
    “This is a very