forget. . . . Messieurs, I, Hercule Poirot, will serve you faithfully. Heaven only send that it will be in time. But this is dark—dark. . . . I cannot see."
"Well, Poirot," I cried impatiently, as the door closed behind the Ministers, "what do you think?"
My friend was busy packing a minute suitcase, with quick, deft movements. He shook his head thoughtfully.
"I do not know what to think. My brains desert me."
"Why, as you said, kidnap him, when a knock on the head would do as well?" I mused.
"Pardon me, mon ami, but I did not quite say that. It is undoubtedly far more their affair to kidnap him."
"But why?"
"Because uncertainty creates panic. That is one reason. Were the Prime Minister dead, it would be a terrible calamity, but the situation would have to be faced. But now you have paralysis. Will the Prime Minister reappear, or will he not? Is he dead or alive? Nobody knows, and until they know nothing definite can be done. And, as I tell you, uncertainty breeds
