"I'm afraid I couldn't, sir.
I was out in the evening.
Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl.
Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night.
That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things."
Poirot lifted his hand.
"Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them."
"Very well, sir."
"What time did you go out last evening?"
"About six o'clock, sir."
"Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you."
He rose and strolled to the window.
"I have been admiring these flower beds.
How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?"
"Only three now, sir.
Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be.
I wish you could have seen it then, sir.
A fair sight it was.
But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like.
Ah, these are dreadful times!"
"The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so.
Now, will you send Annie to me here?"
"Yes, sir.
Thank you, sir."
"How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?"
I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room.
"And about the lost key and the duplicate?"
"One thing at a time.
As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders.
"Where did you find it?"
"In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom.
It was Number Six of my catalogue."
"But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?"
"Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about this box?"
I examined it closely.
"No, I can't say that I do."
"Look at the label."
I read the label carefully: "'One powder to be taken at bedtime, if required.
Mrs. Inglethorp.'
No, I see nothing unusual."
"Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?"
"Ah!" I exclaimed. "To be sure, that is odd!"
"Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that, without his printed name?"
"No, I can't say that I have."
I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour by remarking:
"Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not intrigue yourself, my friend."
An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no time to reply.
Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring under intense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of the tragedy.
Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness.
"I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able to tell me something about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last night.