Inspector Raglan stared at the little man. Poirot, with an air of great

unconcern, flecked a speck of dust from his coat sleeve.

 

“Well,” said the inspector, “it’s an idea. I’ll look into it all right, but

don’t you be disappointed if nothing comes of it.”

 

He endeavored to make his tone kindly and patronizing. Poirot watched him go

off. Then he turned to me with twinkling eyes.

 

“Another time,” he observed, “I must be more careful of his _amour propre_. And

now that we are left to our own devices, what do you think, my good friend, of a

little reunion of the family?”

 

The “little reunion,” as Poirot called it, took place about half an hour later.

We sat round the table in the dining-room at Fernly—Poirot at the head of the

table, like the chairman of some ghastly board meeting. The servants were not

present, so we were six in all. Mrs.

 

Ackroyd, Flora, Major Blunt, young Raymond, Poirot, and myself.

 

When every one was assembled, Poirot rose and bowed.

 

“Messieurs, mesdames, I have called you together for a certain purpose.” He

paused. “To begin with, I want to make a very special plea to mademoiselle.”