“Yes. It was cut exactly the shape of Mr. Inglethorp’s, and I found one or two snipped hairs. Hastings, this affair is very deep.”

“Who put it in the chest, I wonder?”

“Someone with a good deal of intelligence,” remarked Poirot dryly. “You realize that he chose the one place in the house to hide it where its presence would not be remarked? Yes, he is intelligent. But we must be more intelligent. We must be so intelligent that he does not suspect us of being intelligent at all.”

I acquiesced.

“There, mon ami , you will be of great assistance to me.”

I was pleased with the compliment. There had been times when I hardly thought that Poirot appreciated me at my true worth.