He paused, consulted a sheaf of notes that lay by his side, and then dictated as follows:—
“Dear Poirot, I think I’m on the track of Number Four. A Chinaman came this afternoon and lured me down here with a bogus message. Luckily I saw through his little game in time, and gave him the slip. Then I turned the tables on him, and managed to do a bit of shadowing on my own account—rather neatly too, I flatter myself. I'm getting a bright young lad to carry this to you. Give him half a crown, will you? That’s what I promised him if it was delivered safely. I’m watching the house, and daren’t leave. I shall wait for you until six o’clock, and if you haven’t come then, I’ll have a try at getting into the house on my own. It’s too good a chance to miss, and, of course, the boy mightn’t find you. But if he does, get him to bring you down here right away. And cover up those precious moustaches of yours in case any one’s watching out from the house and might recognise you.
“Yours in haste,
“A. H.”
Every word that I wrote plunged me deeper in despair. The thing was diabolically clever. I realised how closely every detail of our life
