"No, I didn't, Mr. Poirot. You know what men are! They don't like you to notice things especially if it should seem you were telling them off about it. I never said a word—but many's the time I smiled to myself. Bless you, he never knew he was doing it even."
Poirot nodded gently. I noticed that his own hand was shaking a little as he stretched it out to his glass.
"Then there is always handwriting as a means of establishing identity," he remarked. "Without doubt you have preserved a letter written by Mr. Darrell?"
Flossie Monro shook her head regretfully.
"He was never one for writing. Never wrote me a line in his life."
"That is a pity," said Poirot.
"I tell you what, though," said Miss Monro suddenly. "I've got a photograph if that would be any good?"
"You have a photograph?"
Poirot almost sprang from his seat with excitement.
"It's quite an old one—eight years old at least."