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Murder on the Links
had just driven off in his car. I was going down the steps when Poirot’s voice arrested me: “One little moment, my friend.”
Dexterously he whipped out his yard measure and proceeded, quite solemnly, to measure an overcoat hanging in the hall from the collar to the hem. I had not seen it hanging there before, and guessed that it belonged to either Mr, Stonor or Jack Renauld.
Then, with a little satisfied grunt, Poirot returned the measure to his pocket and followed me out into the open air.
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