or him to be present at our little conference this morning.”
The Right Honourable Sydney Crowther, His Majesty’s Secretary of State for Home Affairs, was a well-known and popular figure. A man of some fifty years of age, with a quizzical expression and shrewd gray eyes, he received us with that delightful bonhomie of manner which was well known to be one of his principal assets.
Standing with his back to the fireplace was a tall thin man with a pointed black beard and a sensitive face.
“M. Desjardeaux,” said Crowther. “Allow me to introduce to you M. Hercule Poirot of whom you may, perhaps, already have heard.”
The Frenchman bowed and shook hands.
“I have indeed heard of M. Hercule Poirot,” he said pleasantly. “Who has not?”
“You are too amiable, monsieur,” said Poirot, bowing, but his face flushed with pleasure.
“Any word for an old friend?” asked a quiet voice, and a man came forward from a corner by a tall bookcase.
It was our old acquaintance, Mr. Ingles.
Poirot shook him warmly by the hand.
“And now, M. Poirot,” said Crowther. “We are at your service. I understood you to
