“Of course! How stupid of me. You’re a friend of the Cavendishes, aren’t you? It

was Mary Cavendish who sent me to Monsieur Poirot.”

 

When my friend returned, I enjoyed telling him the tale of what had occurred

during his absence. He cross-questioned me rather sharply over the details of

our conversation and I could read between the lines that he was not best pleased

to have been absent.

 

I also fancied that the dear old fellow was just the least inclined to be

jealous. It had become rather a pose with him to consistently belittle my

abilities, and I think he was chagrined at finding no loophole for criticism. I

was secretly rather pleased with myself, though I tried to conceal the fact for

fear of irritating him. In spite of his idiosyncrasies, I was deeply attached to

my quaint little friend.

 

“_Bien!_” he said at length, with a curious look on his face. “The plot

develops. Pass me, I pray you, that ‘Peerage’ on the top shelf there.” He turned

the leaves. “Ah, here we are! ‘Yardly . . . 10th viscount, served South African

War’ . . . _tout ça n’a pas d’importance_ . . . ‘mar. 1907 Hon. Maude

Stopperton, fourth daughter of 3rd Baron Cotteril’ . . . um, um, um, . . . ‘has

iss. two daughters, born 1908, 1910. . . . Clubs . . . residences.’ . . .

_Voilà_, that does not tell us much. But to-morrow morning we see this

_milord_!”

 

“What?”