Deftly, on hands and knees, he began to sort the ashes from the grate into the fender, handling them with the greatest caution. Suddenly, he gave a faint exclamation.
“The forceps, Hastings!”
I quickly handed them to him, and with skill he extracted a small piece of half charred paper.
“There, mon ami!” he cried. “What do you think of that?”
I scrutinized the fragment. This is an exact reproduction of it:—
I was puzzled. It was unusually thick, quite unlike ordinary notepaper. Suddenly an idea struck me.
“Poirot!” I cried. “This is a fragment of a will!”
“Exactly.”
I looked up at him sharply.