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Chapter V. “It Isn’t Strychnine, Is It?”
Hisbackwasmuchbent,thoughhewasprobablynotasoldashelooked,buthiseyesweresharpandintelligent,andbeliedhisslowandrathercautiousspeech.
“Manning,”saidJohn,“thisgentlemanwillputsomequestionstoyouwhichIwantyoutoanswer.”
“Yessir,”mumbledManning.
Poirotsteppedforwardbriskly.Manning’seyesweptoverhimwithafaintcontempt.
“Youwereplantingabedofbegoniasroundbythesouthsideofthehouseyesterdayafternoon,wereyounot,Manning?”
“Yes,sir,meandWillum.”
“AndMrs.Inglethorpcametothewindowandcalledyou,didshenot?”
“Yes,sir,shedid.”
“Tellmeinyourownwordsexactlywhathappenedafterthat.”
“Well,sir,nothingmuch.ShejusttoldWillumtogoonhisbicycledowntothevillage,andbringbackaformofwill,orsuch-like—Idon’tknowwhatexactly—shewroteitdownforhim.”
“Well?”
“Well,hedid,sir.”
“Andwhathappenednext?”
“Wewentonwiththebegonias,sir.”
“DidnotMrs.Inglethorpcallyouagain?”
“Yes,sir,bothmeandWillum,shecalled.”
“Andthen?”
“Shemadeuscomerightin,andsignournamesatthebottomofalongpaper—underwhereshe’dsigned.”
“Didyouseeanythingofwhatwaswrittenabovehersignature?”askedPoirotsharply.
“No,sir,therewasabitofblottingpaperoverthatpart.”
“Andyousignedwhereshetoldyou?”
“Yes,sir,firstmeandthenWillum.
