“It is that you have really the love of the machinery,” he said, after

inspecting the débris of my labors.

 

Every man has his hobby. I immediately drew Poirot’s attention to my home-made

wireless. Finding him sympathetic, I showed him one or two little inventions of

my own—trifling things, but useful in the house.

 

“Decidedly,” said Poirot, “you should be an inventor by trade, not a doctor. But

I hear the bell—that is your patient. Let us go into the surgery.”

 

Once before I had been struck by the remnants of beauty in the housekeeper’s

face. This morning I was struck anew. Very simply dressed in black, tall,

upright and independent as ever, with her big dark eyes and an unwonted flush of

color in her usually pale cheeks, I realized that as a girl she must have been

startlingly handsome.

 

“Good-morning, mademoiselle,” said Poirot. “Will you be seated? Dr.

 

Sheppard is so kind as to permit me the use of his surgery for a little

conversation I am anxious to have with you.”

 

Miss Russell sat down with her usual composure. If she felt any inward

agitation, it did not display itself in any outward manifestation.

 

“It seems a queer way of doing things, if you’ll allow me to say so,” she