Poirot reflected.
“After you had signed the second time, what did Mr. Marsh do? Do you know?”
“Went out to the village to pay tradesmen’s books.”
That did not seem very promising. Poirot tried another tack. He held out the key of the desk.
“Is that your master’s writing?”
I may have imagined it, but I fancied that a moment or two elapsed before Baker replied: “Yes sir, it is.”
“He’s lying,” I thought. “But why?”
“Has your master let the house? Have there been any strangers in it during the last three years?”
“No sir.”
“No visitors?”