front of him. He picked up the topmost letter,
studied the address for a moment, then neatly slit
the back of the envelope with a little paper knife
that he kept on the breakfast table for that express
purpose and extracted the contents. Inside was yet
another envelope, carefully sealed with purple wax
and marked "Private and Confidential."
Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose a little on his
egg-shaped head. He murmured, "Patience! Nous
allons arriver!" and once more brought the little
paper knife into play. This time the envelope
yielded a letter--written in a rather shaky and
spiky handwriting. Several words were heavily
underlined.
Hercule Poirot unfolded it and read. The letter
was headed once again "Private and Confiden
tial." On the right-hand side was the address
53
Agatha Christie
--Rosebank, Charman's Green, Bucks--and the
date--March twenty-first.
Dear M. Poirot: I have been recommended
to you by an old and valued friend of mine
who knows the worry and distress I have been
in lately. Not that this friend knows the actual
circumstances--those I have kept entirely to
myself--the matter being strictly private. My
friend assures me that you are discretion
itself--and that there will be no fear of my
being involved in a police matter which, if my