said, "that that wall is important."
Stillingfleet looked at him curiously. "You
mean--psychologically?"
Poirot had moved to the desk. Idly, or so it
seemed, he picked up a pair of what are usually
called lazytongs. He pressed the handles; the tongs
shot out to their full length. Delicately, Poirot
picked up a burnt match stump with them from
beside a chair some feet away and conveyed it
carefully to the waste-paper basket.
"When you've finished playing with those
things..." said Stillingfleet irritably.
Hercule Poirot murmured, "An ingenious in-vention,''
and replaced the tongs neatly on the
writing-table. Then he asked:
"Where were Mrs. Farley and Miss Farley at the
time of the--death?"
"Mrs. Farley was resting in her room on the
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Agatha Christie
floor above this. Miss Farley was painting in her
studio at the top of the house."
Hercule Poirot drummed idly with his fingers
on the table for a minute or two. Then he said:
"I should like to see Miss Farley. Do you think
you could ask her to come here for a minute or
two?"
"If you like."
Stillingfleet glanced at him curiously, then left
the room. In another minute or two the door