“These?”
Poirot produced the empty box which had contained powders.
She nodded.
“Can you tell me what they were? Sulphonal? Veronal?”
“No, they were bromide powders.”
“Ah! Thank you, mademoiselle; good morning.”
As we walked briskly away from the house, I glanced at him more than once. I had often before noticed that, if anything excited him, his eyes turned green like a cat’s. They were shining like emeralds now.
“My friend,” he broke out at last, “I have a little idea, a very strange, and probably utterly impossible idea. And yet—it fits in.”
I shrugged my shoulders. I privately thought that Poirot was rather too much given to these fantastic ideas. In this case, surely, the truth was only too plain and apparent.
“So that is the explanation of the blank label on the box,” I remarked. “Very simple, as you said. I really wonder that I did not think of it myself.”