of my collars." Poirot was smiling, apolo-getic.
He dipped into his left-hand pocket. "This
is your letter."
Benedict Farley snatched at it--grunted: "Why
the devil can't you mind what you're doing?"
Poirot retrieved his laundress's communication,
apologized gracefully once more, and left the
room.
He paused for a moment outside on the landing.
It was a spacious one. Directly facing him was a
big old oak settle with a refectory table in front of
it. On the table were magazines. There were also
two armchairs and a table with flowers. It re-minded
him a little of a dentist's waiting-room.
The butler was in the hall below waiting to let
him out.
"Can I get you a taxi, sir?"
"No, I thank you. The night is fine. I will
walk."
Hercule Poirot paused a moment on the pave-ment
waiting for a lull in the traffic before cross-ing
the busy street.,
A frown creased his forehead.
"No," he said to himself. "I do not understand
at all. Nothing makes sense. Regrettable to have to
admit it, but I, Hercule Poirot, am completely
baffled."
That was what might be termed the first act of
the drama. The second act followed a week later.
It opened with a telephone call from one John