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“
Yes
,
it
is
Mrs
.
Inglethorp
’
s
.
But
what
does
it
mean
?
”
Poirot
shrugged
his
shoulders
.
“
I
cannot
say
—
but
it
is
suggestive
.
”
A
wild
idea
flashed
across
me
.
Was
it
possible
that
Mrs
.
Inglethorp
’
s
mind
was
deranged
?
Had
she
some
fantastic
idea
of
demoniacal
possession
?
And
,
if
that
were
so
,
was
it
not
also
possible
that
she
might
have
taken
her
own
life
?
I
was
about
to
expound
these
theories
to
Poirot
,
when
his
own
words
distracted
me
.
“
Come
,
”
he
said
,
“
now
to
examine
the
coffee
-
cups
!
”
“
My
dear
Poirot
!
What
on
earth
is
the
good
of
that
,
now
that
we
know
about
the
cocoa
?
”
“
Oh
,
là
là
!
That
miserable
cocoa
!
”
cried
Poirot
flippantly
.
He
laughed
with
apparent
enjoyment
,
raising
his
arms
to
heaven
in
mock
despair
,
in
what
I
could
not
but
consider
the
worst
possible
taste
.
“
And
,
anyway
,
”
I
said
,
with
increasing
coldness
,
“
as
Mrs
.
Inglethorp
took
her
coffee
upstairs
with
her
,
I
do
not
see
what
you
expect
to
find
,
unless
you
consider
it
likely
that
we
shall
discover
a
packet
of
strychnine
on
the
coffee
tray
!
”
