He made another dart and picked up a small quill—a goose quill by the look of

it.

 

“And that?” he cried triumphantly. “What do you make of that?”

 

I only stared.

 

He slipped the quill into his pocket, and looked again at the scrap of white

stuff.

 

“A fragment of a handkerchief?” he mused. “Perhaps you are right. But remember

this—_a good laundry does not starch a handkerchief_.”

 

He nodded at me triumphantly, then he put away the scrap carefully in his

pocket-book.

 

CHAPTER IX

 

THE GOLDFISH POND

 

We walked back to the house together. There was no sign of the inspector. Poirot

paused on the terrace and stood with his back to the house, slowly turning his

head from side to side.

 

“_Une belle propriété_,” he said at last appreciatively. “Who inherits it?”