CHAPTER XII
THE LAST LINK
Poirot's abrupt departure had intrigued us all
greatly. Sunday morning wore away, and still he did not reappear. But about three o'clock a ferocious and prolonged hooting outside drove us to the window, to see Poirot alighting from a car, accompanied by Japp and Summerhaye. The little man was transformed. He radiated an absurd complacency. He bowed with exaggerated respect to Mary Cavendish.
"Madame, I have your permission to hold a little réunion in the salon? It is necessary for every one to attend."
Mary smiled sadly.
"You know, Monsieur Poirot, that you have carte blanche in every way."
"You are too amiable, madame."
Still beaming, Poirot marshalled us all into the drawing-room, bringing forward chairs as he did so.
"Miss Howard—here. Mademoiselle Cynthia.
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