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42 some diabolical contrivance concealed in the ceiling—something which descended automatically and cut the old man’s throat and was afterwards drawn up again?”

“Like Jacob’s ladder? I know, Hastings, that you have an imagination of the most fertile—but I implore of you to keep it within bounds.”

I subsided, abashed. Poirot continued to wander about, poking into rooms and cupboards with a profoundly dissatisfied expression on his face. Suddenly he uttered an excited yelp, reminiscent of a Pomeranian dog. I rushed to join him. He was standing in the larder in a dramatic attitude. In his hand he was brandishing a leg of mutton!

“My dear Poirot!” I cried. “What is the matter? Have you suddenly gone mad?”

“Regard, I pray you, this mutton. But regard it closely!”

I regarded it as closely as I could, but could see nothing unusual about it. It seemed to me a very ordinary leg of mutton. I said as much. Poirot threw me a withering glance.

“But do you not see this—and this—and this”

He illustrated each “this” with a jab at the unoffending joint, dislodging small icicles as he did so.