“So there you are, M. Poirot,” he said. “Well, this isn’t going to be much of a

case. I’m sorry, too. A nice enough young fellow gone wrong.”

 

Poirot’s face fell, and he spoke very mildly.

 

“I’m afraid I shall not be able to be of much aid to you, then?”

 

“Next time, perhaps,” said the inspector soothingly. “Though we don’t have

murders every day in this quiet little corner of the world.”

 

Poirot’s gaze took on an admiring quality.

 

“You have been of a marvelous promptness,” he observed. “How exactly did you go

to work, if I may ask?”

 

“Certainly,” said the inspector. “To begin with—method. That’s what I always

say—method!”

 

“Ah!” cried the other. “That, too, is my watchword. Method, order, and the

little gray cells.”

 

“The cells?” said the inspector, staring.

 

“The little gray cells of the brain,” explained the Belgian.