“Come, come, _mon ami_. I know all that you feel about this miserable business.

I have not distinguished myself!

 

You, in my place, might have distinguished yourself! _Bien!_ All is admitted.

Let us forget it and have lunch.”

 

It was about four o’clock when we entered Poirot’s rooms. A figure rose from a

chair by the window. It was Lord Yardly. He looked haggard and distraught.

 

“I got your wire and came up at once. Look here, I’ve been round to Hoffberg,

and they know nothing about that man of theirs last night, or the wire either.

Do you think that——”

 

Poirot held up his hand.

 

“My excuses! I sent that wire, and hired the gentleman in question.”

 

“_You_—but why? What?” The nobleman spluttered impotently.

 

“My little idea was to bring things to a head,” explained Poirot placidly.

 

“Bring things to a head! Oh, my God!” cried Lord Yardly.

 

“And the ruse succeeded,” said Poirot cheerfully. “Therefore, _milord_, I have

much pleasure in returning you—this!” With a dramatic gesture he produced a