wall, and a big leather armchair showed plainly that it had been its owner’s constant resting-place. A big chintz-covered settee ran along the opposite wall, and the deep low window-seats were covered with the same faded chintz of an old-fashioned pattern.“_Eh bien, mon ami_,” said Poirot, lighting one of his tiny cigarettes, “we must map out our plan of campaign. Already I have made a rough survey of the house, but I am of opinion that any due will be found in this room. We shall have to go through the documents in the desk with meticulous care. Naturally I do not expect to find the will among them, but it is likely that some apparently innocent paper may conceal the clue to its hiding-place. But first we must have a little information. Ring the bell, I pray of you.”  

I did so. While we were waiting for it to be answered, Poirot walked up and down, looking about him approvingly.  

“A man of method, this Mr. Marsh. See how neatly the packets of papers are docketed; and the key to each drawer has its ivory label—so has the key of the china-cabinet on the wall. And see with what precision the china within is arranged! It rejoices the heart. Nothing here offends the eye—”  

He came to an abrupt pause, as his eye was caught by the key of the desk itself, to which a dirty envelope was affixed. Poirot frowned at it, and withdrew it from the lock. On it were scrawled the words “_Key of Roll-top Desk_” in a crabbed handwriting quite unlike the neat superscriptures on the other keys.  

“An alien note,” said Poirot, frowning. “I could swear that here we have no longer the personality of Mr. Marsh. But who else has been in the house? Only Miss Marsh; and she, if I mistake not, is also a young lady of method and order.”  

Baker came in answer to the bell.  

“Will you fetch Madame your wife and answer a few questions?”  

Baker departed, and in a few moments returned with Mrs. Baker, wiping her hands on her apron and beaming all over her face.  

In a few clear words, Poirot set forth the object of his mission. The Bakers were immediately sympathetic.  

“Us don’t want to see Miss Violet done out of what’s hers,” declared the woman. “Cruel hard, ’twould be, for hospitals to get it all.”  

Poirot proceeded with his questions. Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Baker remembered perfectly witnessing the 

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