We arrived back at my house at this minute, and I hurried in to my surgery

patients, who had all been waiting a considerable time, leaving Poirot to walk

to the police station with the inspector.

 

Having dismissed the last patient, I strolled into the little room at the back

of the house which I call my workshop—I am rather proud of the home-made

wireless set I turned out. Caroline hates my workroom. I keep my tools there,

and Annie is not allowed to wreak havoc with a dustpan and brush. I was just

adjusting the interior of an alarm clock which had been denounced as wholly

unreliable by the household, when the door opened and Caroline put her head in.

 

“Oh! there you are, James,” she said, with deep disapproval. “M. Poirot wants to

see you.”

 

“Well,” I said, rather irritably, for her sudden entrance had startled me and I

had let go of a piece of delicate mechanism, “if he wants to see me, he can come

in here.”

 

“In here?” said Caroline.

 

“That’s what I said—in here.”

 

Caroline gave a sniff of disapproval and retired. She returned in a moment or

two, ushering in Poirot, and then retired again, shutting the door with a bang.