“Only the doctors can tell us that, Mr. Mace.”

“Yes, exactly⁠—of course⁠—” The young man hesitated, and then his agitation was too much for him. He clutched Poirot by the arm, and sank his voice to a whisper: “Just tell me this, Mr. Poirot, it isn’t⁠—it isn’t strychnine, is it?”

I hardly heard what Poirot replied. Something evidently of a noncommittal nature. The young man departed, and as he closed the door Poirot’s eyes met mine.

“Yes,” he said, nodding gravely. “He will have evidence to give at the inquest.”

We went slowly upstairs again. I was opening my lips, when Poirot stopped me with a gesture of his hand.