“Here, my friends, the letter breaks off. Doubtless the writer was interrupted; but there can be no question as to his identity. We all know this handwriting and⁠—”

A howl that was almost a scream broke the silence.

“You devil! How did you get it?”

A chair was overturned. Poirot skipped nimbly aside. A quick movement on his part, and his assailant fell with a crash.

“Messieurs, mesdames,” said Poirot, with a flourish, “let me introduce you to the murderer, Mr. Alfred Inglethorp!”