over, words were found to be scrawled across it, feebly

traced in ink. A writing-table stood close to the chair in which Mr. Paynter had been sitting, and the forefinger

of the victim's right hand was ink-stained up to the second joint. It was clear that, too weak to hold a pen, Mr.

Paynter had dipped his finger in the ink-pot and managed to scrawl these two words across the surface of the

newspaper he held--but the words themselves seemed

utterly fantastic: Yellow Jasmine--just that and nothing more.

"Croftlands has a large quantity of yellow jasmine

growing up its walls, and it was thought that this dying message had some reference to them, showing that the

poor old man's mind was wandering. Of course, the

newspapers, agog for anything out of the common,

took up the story hotly, calling it the Mystery of the

Yellow Jasmine--though in all probability the words

are completely unimportant."

"They are unimportant, you say?" said Poirot.

"Well, doubtless, since you say so, it must be so." I regarded him dubiously, but I could detect no

mockery in his eye.

"And then," I continued, "there came the excitements of the inquest."

"This is where you lick your lips, I perceive."

"There was a certain amount of feeling evidenced

against Dr. Quentin. To begin with, he was not the regular doctor, only a locum, putting in a month's work,

92 Agatha Christie

whilst Dr. Bolitho was away on a well-earned holiday.

Then it was felt that his carelessness was the direct cause of the accident. But his evidence was little short of sensational. Mr. Paynter had been ailing in health ever

since his arrival at Croftlands. Dr. Bolitho had attended him for some time, but when Dr. Quentin first saw his

patient, he was mystified by some of the symptoms. He

had only attended him once before the night when he

was sent for after dinner. As soon as he was alone with

Mr. Paynter, the latter had unfolded a surprising tale.

To begin with, he was not feeling ill at all, he explained, but the taste of some curry that he had been eating at

dinner had struck him as peculiar. Making an excuse to

get rid of Ah Ling for a few minutes, he had turned the

contents of his plate into a bowl, and he now handed it

over to the doctor with injunctions to find out if there were really anything wrong with it.

"In spite of his statement that he was not feeling ill, the doctor noted that the shock of his suspicions had

evidently affected him, and that his heart was feeling it. Accordingly he administered an injection--not of a narcotic, but of strychnine.

"That, I think, completes the case--except for the crux of the whole thing--the fact that the uneaten curry,

duly analysed, was found to contain enough powdered

opium to have killed two men!"

I paused.

"And your conclusions, Hastings?" asked Poirot quietly.

"It's difficult to say. It might be an accident--the fact that some one attempted to poison him the same