‘He sat in here and read.’

‘He was not a very sociable man?’

The girl looked at him directly. ‘My father,’ she said, ‘had a singularly unpleasant personality. No one who lived in close association with him could possibly be fond of him.’

‘That, Mademoiselle, is a very candid statement.’

‘I am saving you time, M. Poirot. I realize quite well what you are getting at. My stepmother married my father for his money. I live here because I have no money to live elsewhere. There is a man I wish to marry—a poor man; my father saw to it that he lost his job. He wanted me, you see, to marry well—an easy matter since I was to be his heiress!’

‘Your father’s fortune passes to you?’

‘Yes. That is, he left Louise, my stepmother, a quarter of a million free of tax, and there are other legacies, but the residue goes to me.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘So you see, M. Poirot, I had every reason to desire my father’s death!’

‘I see, Mademoiselle, that you have inherited your father’s intelligence.’

She said thoughtfully, ‘Father was clever . . . One felt that with him—that he had force—driving power—but it had all turned sour—bitter—there was no humanity left . . .’

Hercule Poirot said softly, ‘Grand Dieu, but what an imbecile I am . . .’

Joanna Farley turned towards the door. ‘Is there anything more?’

‘Two little questions. These tongs here,’ he picked up the lazy-tongs, ‘were they always on the table?’

‘Yes. Father used them for picking up things. He didn’t like stooping.’

‘One other question. Was your father’s eyesight good?’

She stared at him.

‘Oh, no—he couldn’t see at all—I mean he couldn’t see without his glasses. His sight had always been bad from a boy.’

‘But with his glasses?’

‘Oh, he could see all right then, of course.’

‘He could read newspapers and fine print?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘That is all, Mademoiselle.’

She went out of the room.

Poirot murmured, ‘I was stupid. It was there, all the time, under my nose. And because it was so near I could not see it.’

He leaned out of the window once more. Down below, in the narrow way between the house and the factory, he saw a small dark object.

Hercule Poirot nodded, satisfied, and went downstairs again.

The others were still in the library. Poirot addressed himself to the secretary:

‘I want you, Mr Cornworthy, to recount to me in detail the exact circumstances of Mr Farley’s summons to me. When, for instance, did Mr Farley dictate that letter?’

‘On Wednesday afternoon—at five-thirty, as far as I can remember.’

‘Were there any special directions about posting it?’

‘He told me to post it myself.’

‘And you did so?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he give any special instructions to the butler about admitting me?’

‘Yes. He told me to tell Holmes (Holmes is the butler) that a gentleman would be calling at nine-thirty. He was to ask the gentleman’s name. He was also to ask to see the letter.’