into his bedroom, and reappearing with a hat.
A taxi soon took us to our destination, and we were ushered into Mr. McNeil’s private office. Sitting in the arm-chair facing the solicitor was a somewhat lurid looking lady no longer in her first youth. Her hair was of an impossible yellow, and was prolific in curls over each ear, her eyelids were heavily blackened, and she had by no means forgotten the rouge and the lip salve.
“Ah, here is M. Poirot!” said Mr. McNeil. “M. Poirot, this is Miss—er—Monro, who has very kindly called to give us some information.
“Ah, but that is most kind!” cried Poirot.
He came forward with great empressement, and shook the lady warmly by the hand.
“Mademoiselle blooms like a flower in this dry-as-dust old office,” he added, careless of the feelings of Mr. McNeil.
This outrageous flattery was not without effect. Miss Monro blushed and simpered.
“Oh, go on now, Mr. Poirot!” she exclaimed. “I know what you Frenchmen are like.”
“Mademoiselle, we are not mute like Englishmen before beauty. Not that I am a Frenchman—I am a Belgian, you see.”
“I’ve been to Ostend myself,” said Miss Monro.
