"Breakfast is ready," said John Cavendish, coming in from the
hall. "You will breakfast with us, Monsieur Poirot?"
Poirot acquiesced. I observed John. Already he was almost
restored to his normal self. The shock of the events of the last
night had upset him temporarily, but his equable poise soon swung
back to the normal. He was a man of very little imagination, in
sharp contrast with his brother, who had, perhaps, too much.
Ever since the early hours of the morning, John had been hard at
work, sending telegrams--one of the first had gone to Evelyn
Howard--writing notices for the papers, and generally occupying
himself with the melancholy duties that a death entails.
"May I ask how things are proceeding?" he said. "Do your
investigations point to my mother having died a natural death--
or--or must we prepare ourselves for the worst?"
"I think, Mr. Cavendish," said Poirot gravely, "that you would do
well not to buoy yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell
me the views of the other members of the family?"
"My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss over
nothing. He says that everything points to its being a simple
case of heart failure."
"He does, does he? That is very interesting--very interesting,"
murmured Poirot softly. "And Mrs. Cavendish?"
A faint cloud passed over John's face.
"I have not the least idea what my wife's views on the subject
are."
The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train. John
broke the rather awkward silence by saying with a slight effort:
"I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has returned?"
Poirot bent his head.
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