There was an expression of exultation on his face which I could not understand.
Was he at last convinced of Alfred Inglethorp's guilt?
"Mr. Inglethorp," said the Coroner, "you have heard your wife's dying words repeated here.
Can you explain them in any way?"
"Certainly I can."
"You can?"
"It seems to me very simple.
The room was dimly lighted. Dr. Bauerstein is much of my height and build, and, like me, wears a beard.
In the dim light, and suffering as she was, my poor wife mistook him for me."
"Ah!" murmured Poirot to himself. "But it is an idea, that!"
"You think it is true?" I whispered.
"I do not say that. But it is truly an ingenious supposition."
"You read my wife's last words as an accusation"—Inglethorp was continuing—"they were, on the contrary, an appeal to me."
The Coroner reflected a moment, then he said:
"I believe, Mr. Inglethorp, that you yourself poured out the coffee, and took it to your wife that evening?"
"I poured it out, yes. But I did not take it to her.
I meant to do so, but I was told that a friend was at the hall door, so I laid down the coffee on the hall table.
When I came through the hall again a few minutes later, it was gone."
This statement might, or might not, be true, but it did not seem to me to improve matters much for Inglethorp.
In any case, he had had ample time to introduce the poison.
At that point, Poirot nudged me gently, indicating two men who were sitting together near the door.
One was a little, sharp, dark, ferret-faced man, the other was tall and fair.
I questioned Poirot mutely.
He put his lips to my ear. "Do you know who that little man is?"
I shook my head.
"That is Detective Inspector James Japp of Scotland Yard—Jimmy Japp.
The other man is from Scotland Yard too.
Things are moving quickly, my friend."
I stared at the two men intently. There was certainly nothing of the policeman about them.
I should never have suspected them of being official personages.
I was still staring, when I was startled and recalled by the verdict being given: "Wilful Murder against some person or persons unknown."
CHAPTER VII. POIROT PAYS HIS DEBTS
As we came out of the Stylites Arms, Poirot drew me aside by a gentle pressure of the arm.
I understood his object. He was waiting for the Scotland Yard men.
In a few moments, they emerged, and Poirot at once stepped forward, and accosted the shorter of the two.
"I fear you do not remember me, Inspector Japp."
"Why, if it isn't Mr. Poirot!" cried the Inspector.
He turned to the other man. "You've heard me speak of Mr. Poirot?
It was in 1904 he and I worked together—the Abercrombie forgery case—you remember, he was run down in Brussels.
Ah, those were great days, moosier.
Then, do you remember 'Baron' Altara?
There was a pretty rogue for you!
He eluded the clutches of half the police in Europe.
But we nailed him in Antwerp—thanks to Mr. Poirot here."
As these friendly reminiscences were being indulged in, I drew nearer, and was introduced to Detective-Inspector Japp, who, in his turn, introduced us both to his companion, Superintendent Summerhaye.
"I need hardly ask what you are doing here, gentlemen," remarked Poirot.
Japp closed one eye knowingly.
"No, indeed. Pretty clear case I should say."
But Poirot answered gravely: "There I differ from you."
"Oh, come!" said Summerhaye, opening his lips for the first time. "Surely the whole thing is clear as daylight. The man's caught red-handed.