The countess whirled round with her usual vehemence of movement.
“God in Heaven!” she cried. “It is the little man! Ah! but he has the nine lives of a cat! Oh, little man, little man! Why did you mix yourself up in this?”
“Madame,” said Poirot, with a bow. “Me, like the great Napoleon, I am on the side of the big battalions.”
As he spoke I saw a sudden suspicion flash into her eyes, and at the same moment I knew the truth which subconsciously I already sensed.
The man beside me was not Hercule Poirot.
He was very like him, extraordinarily like him. There was the same egg-shaped head, the same strutting figure, delicately plump. But the voice was different, and the eyes instead of being green were dark, and surely the moustaches—those famous moustaches?
My reflections were cut short by the countess’s voice. She stepped forward, her voice ringing with excitement.
“You have been deceived. That man is not Hercule Poirot!”
Number Four uttered an incredulous exclamation, but the countess leant forward and snatched
