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‘Achille Poirot,’ replied Poirot gravely. ‘He lives near Spa in Belgium.’

‘What does he do?’ I asked with some curiosity, putting aside a half-formed wonder as to the character and disposition of the late Madame Poirot, and her classical taste in Christian names.

‘He does nothing. He is, as I tell, of a singularly indolent disposition. But his abilities are hardly less than my own—which is saying a great deal.’

‘Is he like you to look at?’

‘Not unlike. But not nearly so handsome. And he wears no moustaches.’

‘Is he older than you, or younger?’

‘He happens to have been born on the same day.’

‘A twin,’ I cried.

‘Exactly, Hastings. You jump to the right conclusion with unfailing accuracy. But here we are at home again. Let us at once get to work on that little affair of the Duchess’s necklace.’

But the Duchess’s necklace was doomed to wait awhile. A case of quite another description was waiting for us.

Our landlady, Mrs Pearson, at once informed us that a hospital nurse had called and was waiting to see Poirot.

We found her sitting in the big armchair facing the window, a pleasant-faced woman of middle age, in a dark blue uniform. She was a little reluctant to come to the point, but Poirot soon put her at her ease, and she embarked upon her story.

‘You see, M. Poirot, I’ve never come across anything of the kind before. I was sent for, from the Lark Sisterhood, to go down to a case in Hertfordshire. An old gentleman, it is, Mr Templeton. Quite a pleasant house, and quite pleasant people. The wife, Mrs Templeton, is much younger than the husband, and he has a son by his first marriage who lives there. I don’t know that the young man and the step-mother always get on together. He’s not quite what you’d call normal—not “wanting” exactly, but decidedly dull in the intellect. Well, this illness of Mr Templeton’s seemed to me from the first to be mysterious. At times there seemed really nothing the matter with him, and then he suddenly has one of these gastric attacks with pain and vomiting. But the doctor seemed quite satisfied, and it wasn’t for me to say anything. But I couldn’t help thinking about it. And then—’ She paused, and became rather red.

‘Something happened which aroused your suspicions?’ suggested Poirot.

‘Yes.’

But she still seemed to find it difficult to go on.

‘I found the servants were passing remarks too.’

‘About Mr Templeton’s illness?’

‘Oh, no! About—about this other thing—’

‘Mrs Templeton?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mrs Templeton and the doctor, perhaps?’

Poirot had an uncanny flair in these things. The nurse threw him a grateful glance and went on.

‘They were passing remarks. And then one day I happened to see them together myself—in the garden—’

It was left at that. Our client was in such an agony of outraged propriety that no one could feel it necessary to ask exactly what she had seen in the garden. She had evidently seen quite enough to make up her own mind on the situation.

‘The attacks got worse and worse. Dr Treves said it was all perfectly natural and to be expected, and that Mr Templeton could not possibly live long, but I’ve never seen anything like it before myself—not in all my long experience of nursing. It seemed to me much more like some form of—’

She paused, hesitating.

‘Arsenical poisoning?’ said Poirot helpfully.

She nodded.

‘And then, too, he, the patient, I mean, said something queer. “They’ll do for me, the four of them. They’ll do for me yet.”’

‘Eh?’ said Poirot quickly.

‘Those were his very words, M. Poirot. He was in great pain at the time, of course, and hardly knew what he was saying.’

‘“They’ll do for me, the four of them,”’ repeated Poirot thoughtfully. ‘What did he mean by “the four of them”, do you think?’

‘That I can’t say, M. Poirot. I thought perhaps he meant his wife and son, and the doctor, and perhaps Miss Clark, Mrs Templeton’s companion. That would make four, wouldn’t it? He might think they were all in league against him.’

‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Poirot, in a preoccupied