will. Baker had previously been sent into the neighboring town to get two printed will-forms.  

“Two?” said Poirot sharply.  

“Yes sir, for safety like, I suppose, in case he should spoil one—and sure enough, so he did do. Us had signed one—”  

“What time of day was that?”  

Baker scratched his head, but his wife was quicker.  

“Why, to be sure, I’d just put the milk on for the cocoa at eleven. Don’t ee remember? It had all boiled over on the stove when us got back to kitchen.”  

“And afterward?”  

“’Twould be about an hour later. Us had to go in again. ‘I’ve made a mistake,’ says old Master, ‘—had to tear the whole thing up. I’ll trouble you to sign again.’ And us did. And afterward Master give us a tidy sum of money each. ‘I’ve left you nothing in my will,’ says he, ‘but each year I live, you’ll have this to be a nest-egg when I’m gone;’ and sure enough, so he did.”  

Poirot reflected.  

“After you had signed the second time, what did Mr. Marsh do? Do you know?”  

“Went out to the village to pay tradesmen’s books.”  

That did not seem very promising. Poirot tried another tack. He held out the key of the desk.  

“Is that your master’s writing?”  

I may have imagined it, but I fancied that a moment or two elapsed before Baker replied: “Yes sir, it is.”  

“He’s lying,” I thought. “But why?”  

“Has your master let the house? Have there been any strangers in it during the last three years?”  

“No sir.”  

“No visitors?”  

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