As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just
entering.  I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a
loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly.

"Mon ami Hastings!" he cried.  "It is indeed mon ami Hastings!"

"Poirot!" I exclaimed.

I turned to the pony-trap.

"This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia.  This is
my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years."

"Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily.  "But I had no
idea he was a friend of yours."

"Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously.  "I know Mademoiselle
Cynthia.  It is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that
I am here." Then, as I looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my
friend, she had kindly extended hospitality to seven of my
countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their native land.  We
Belgians will always remember her with gratitude."

Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man.  He was hardly
more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great
dignity.  His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always
perched it a little on one side.  His moustache was very stiff
and military.  The neatness of his attire was almost incredible.
I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a
bullet wound.  Yet this quaint dandyfied little man who, I was
sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in his time one of the
most celebrated members of the Belgian police.  As a detective,
his flair had been extraordinary, and he had achieved triumphs by
unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day.

He pointed out to me the little house inhabited by him and his
fellow Belgians, and I promised to go and see him at an early
date.  Then he raised his hat with a flourish to Cynthia, and we
drove away.

"He's a dear little man," said Cynthia.  "I'd no idea you knew
him."

"You've been entertaining a celebrity unawares," I replied.

And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various
exploits and triumphs of Hercule Poirot.

We arrived back in a very cheerful mood.  As we entered the hall,
Mrs. Inglethorp came out of her boudoir.  She looked flushed and
upset.

"Oh, it's you," she said.

"Is there anything the matter, Aunt Emily?" asked Cynthia.

"Certainly not," said Mrs. Inglethorp sharply.  "What should
there be?" Then catching sight of Dorcas, the parlourmaid, going
into the dining-room, she called to her to bring some stamps into
the boudoir.

"Yes, m'm." The old servant hesitated, then added diffidently:
"Don't you think, m'm, you'd better get to bed? You're looking
very tired."

"Perhaps you're right, Dorcas--yes--no--not now.  I've some
letters I must finish by post-time.  Have you lighted the fire in
my room as I told you?"

"Yes, m'm."

"Then I'll go to bed directly after supper."

She went into the boudoir again, and Cynthia stared after her.

"Goodness gracious! I wonder what's up?" she said to Lawrence.

He did not seem to have heard her, for without a word he turned
on his heel and went out of the house.

I suggested a quick game of tennis before supper and, Cynthia
agreeing, I ran upstairs to fetch my racquet.

Mrs. Cavendish was coming down the stairs.  It may have been my
fancy, but she, too, was looking odd and disturbed.

"Had a good walk with Dr. Bauerstein?" I asked, trying to appear
as indifferent as I could.

"I didn't go," she replied abruptly.  "Where is Mrs. Inglethorp?"

"In the boudoir."

Her hand clenched itself on the banisters, then she seemed to
nerve herself for some encounter, and went rapidly past me down
the stairs across the hall to the boudoir, the door of which she
shut behind her.

As I ran out to the tennis court a few moments later, I had to
pass the open boudoir window, and was unable to help overhearing