The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories (Hercule Poirot 21)

Poirot passed into the room. It was a fair-sized

room, very plainly furnished in a workmanlike

fashion. Filing cabinets, books of reference, a

couple of easy chairs, and a large and imposing

desk covered with neatly docketed papers. The

corners of the room were dim, for the only light

came from a big green-shaded reading-lamp which

stood on a small table by the arm of one of the

easy chairs. It was placed so as to cast its full light

on anyone approaching from the door. Hercule

Poirot blinked a little, realizing that the lamp bulb

was at least 150 watts. In the armchair sat a thin

figure in a patchwork dressing-gown--Benedict

Farley. His head was stuck forward in a char

acteristic

attitude, his beaked nose projecting like that

of a bird. A crest of white hair like that of a cockatoo

rose above his forehead. His eyes glittered

THE DREAM

149

behind thick lenses as he peered suspiciously at his

visitor.

"Hey," he said at last--and his voice was shrill

and harsh, with a rasping note in it. "So you're

Hercule Poirot, hey?"

"At your service," said Poirot politely and

bowed, one hand on the back of the chair.

"Sit down--sit down," said the old man testily.

Hercule Poirot sat down--in the full glare of

the lamp. From behind it the old man seemed to