fee."
"I shall not fail to do so," said the detective
dryly. He walked towards the door.
"Stop a minute." The millionaire called him
back. "That letter--I want it."
"The letter from your secretary?"
"Yes."
Poirot's eyebrows rose. He Put his hand into his
pocket, drew out a folded sheet, and handed it to
the old man. The latter scrutinized it, then put it
down on the table beside him with a nod.
Once more Hercule Poirot walked to the door.
He was puzzled. His busy mind was going over
and over the story he had been told. Yet in the
midst of his mental preoccupation, a nagging
sense of something wrong obtruded itself And
that something had to do with himself--not with
Benedict Farley.
With his hand on the door knob, his mind
cleared. He, Hercule Poirot, had been guilty of an
error! He turned back into the room once more.
"A thousand pardons! In the interest of your
problem I have committed a folly! That letter I
handed to you--by mischance I put my hand into
my right-hand pocket instead of the left--"
THE DREAM
157
"What's all this? What's all this?"
"The letter that I handed you just now--an
apology from my laundress concerning the treat-ment