He made another dart and picked up a small quill—a goose quill by the look of it.
“And that?” he cried triumphantly. “What do you make of that?”
I only stared.
He slipped the quill into his pocket, and looked again at the scrap of white stuff.
“A fragment of a handkerchief?” he mused. “Perhaps you are right. But remember this—a good laundry does not starch a handkerchief.”
He nodded at me triumphantly, then he put away the scrap carefully in his pocket-book.
CHAPTER IX
THE GOLDFISH POND
We walked back to the house together. There was no sign of the inspector. Poirot paused on the terrace and stood with his back to the house, slowly turning his head from side to side.
“Une belle propriété,” he said at last appreciatively. “Who inherits it?”