is! 'Go it—criminals—all out! Hercule Poirot—and believe me, girls, he's some Hercules!—our own pet society detective can't get a grip on you. 'Cause why? 'Cause he's got la grippe himself'!"
I laughed.
"Good for you, Poirot. You are becoming quite a public character. And fortunately you haven't missed anything of particular interest during this time."
"That is true. The few cases I have had to decline did not fill me with any regret."
Our landlady stuck her head in at the door.
"There's a gentleman downstairs. Says he must see Monsieur Poirot or you, Captain. Seeing as he was in a great to-do—and with all that quite the gentleman—I brought up 'is card."
She handed me the bit of pasteboard. "Mr. Roger Havering," I read.
Poirot motioned with his head towards the bookcase, and I obediently pulled forth "Who's Who." Poirot took it from me and scanned the pages rapidly.
"Second son of fifth Baron Windsor. Married 1913 Zoe, fourth daughter of William Crabb."
"H'm!" I said. "I rather fancy that's the
