chair, his eyes half closed, the tips of his fingers just touching each other.

Suddenly he sighed and shook his head.

 

“What is it?” I asked.

 

“It is that there are moments when a great longing for my friend Hastings comes

over me. That is the friend of whom I spoke to you—the one who resides now in

the Argentine. Always, when I have had a big case, he has been by my side. And

he has helped me—yes, often he has helped me. For he had a knack, that one, of

stumbling over the truth unawares—without noticing it himself, _bien entendu_.

At times he has said something particularly foolish, and behold that foolish

remark has revealed the truth to me! And then, too, it was his practice to keep

a written record of the cases that proved interesting.”

 

I gave a slight embarrassed cough.

 

“As far as that goes,” I began, and then stopped.

 

Poirot sat upright in his chair. His eyes sparkled.

 

“But yes? What is it that you would say?”

 

“Well, as a matter of fact, I’ve read some of Captain Hastings’s narratives, and

I thought, why not try my hand at something of the same kind? Seemed a pity not

to—unique opportunity—probably the only time I’ll be mixed up with anything of