“You brought only one candle into the room?”

“Yes. Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he was very upset. He seemed to see something over here”⁠—I indicated the mantelpiece⁠—“that absolutely paralysed him.”

“That is interesting,” said Poirot quickly. “Yes, it is suggestive”⁠—his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall⁠—“but it was not his candle that made this great patch, for you perceive that this is white grease; whereas Monsieur Lawrence’s candle, which is still on the dressing-table, is pink. On the other hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had no candlestick in the room, only a reading-lamp.”

“Then,” I said, “what do you deduce?”

To which my friend only made a rather irritating reply, urging me to use my own natural faculties.

“And the sixth point?” I asked. “I suppose it is the sample of cocoa.”