dignity. Come, we will go to Montagu Mansions and make a few inquiries."
I accompanied him, nothing loath. The Mansions were a handsome block of buildings in excellent repair. A uniformed porter was sunning himself on the threshold, and it was to him that Poirot addressed himself:
"Pardon, but could you tell me if a Mr. and Mrs. Robinson reside here?"
The porter was a man of few words and apparently of a sour or suspicious disposition. He hardly looked at us and grunted out:
"No. 4. Second floor."
"I thank you. Can you tell me how long they have been here?"
"Six months."
I started forward in amazement, conscious as I did so of Poirot's malicious grin.
"Impossible," I cried. "You must be making a mistake."
"Six months."
"Are you sure? The lady I mean is tall and fair with reddish gold hair and———"
"That's 'er," said the porter. "Come in the Michaelmas quarter, they did. Just six months ago."
