Poirot nodded gently. I noticed that his own hand was shaking a little as he stretched it out to his glass.
“Then there is always handwriting as a means of establishing identity,” he remarked. “Without doubt you have preserved a letter written by Mr. Darrell?”
Flossie Monro shook her head regretfully.
“He was never one for writing. Never wrote me a line in his life.”
“That is a pity,” said Poirot.
“I tell you what, though,” said Miss Monro suddenly. “I’ve got a photograph if that would be any good?”
“You have a photograph?”
Poirot almost sprang from his seat with excitement.
“It’s quite an old one—eight years old at least.”
“Ça ne fait rien! No matter how old and faded! Ah, ma foi, but what stupendous luck! You will permit me to inspect that photograph, mademoiselle?”
“Why, of course.”
“Perhaps you will even permit me to have a copy made? It would not take long.”
“Certainly if you like.”
Miss Monro rose.
