He looked over his shoulder and raised one eyebrow quizzically.

 

“An opened window,” he said. “A locked door. A chair that apparently moved

itself. To all three I say, ‘Why?’ and I find no answer.”

 

He shook his head, puffed out his chest, and stood blinking at us. He looked

ridiculously full of his own importance. It crossed my mind to wonder whether he

was really any good as a detective. Had his big reputation been built up on a

series of lucky chances?

 

I think the same thought must have occurred to Colonel Melrose, for he frowned.

 

“Anything more you want to see, M. Poirot?” he inquired brusquely.

 

“You would perhaps be so kind as to show me the silver table from which the

weapon was taken? After that, I will trespass on your kindness no longer.”

 

We went to the drawing-room, but on the way the constable waylaid the colonel,

and after a muttered conversation the latter excused himself and left us

together. I showed Poirot the silver table, and after raising the lid once or

twice and letting it fall, he pushed open the window and stepped out on the

terrace. I followed him.

 

Inspector Raglan had just turned the corner of the house, and was coming towards

us. His face looked grim and satisfied.