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Benedict Farley was staring straight ahead of him. ‘Don’t want a lot of hanky-pankying around,’ he growled out. ‘I’ve told you the facts – you can’t make anything of them. That closes the matter. You can send me a bill for the consultation fee.’

‘I shall not fail to do so,’ said the detective drily. He walked towards the door.

‘Stop a minute.’ The millionaire called him back. ‘That letter – I want it.’

‘The letter from your secretary?’

‘Yes.’

Poirot’s eyebrows rose. He put his hand into his pocket, drew out a folded sheet, and handed it to the old man. The latter scrutinized it, then put it down on the table beside him with a nod.

Once more Hercule Poirot walked to the door. He was puzzled. His busy mind was going over and over the story he had been told. Yet in the midst of his mental preoccupation, a nagging sense of something wrong obtruded itself. And that something had to do with himself – not with Benedict Farley.

With his hand on the door knob, his mind cleared. He, Hercule Poirot, had been guilty of an error! He turned back into the room once more.

‘A thousand pardons! In the interest of your problem I have committed a folly! That letter I handed to you – by mischance I put my hand into my right-hand pocket instead of the left –’

‘What’s all this? What’s all this?’

‘The letter that I handed you just now – an apology from my laundress concerning the treatment of my collars.’ Poirot was smiling, apologetic. He dipped into his left-hand pocket. ‘This is your letter.’

Benedict Farley snatched at it – grunted: ‘Why the devil can’t you mind what you’re doing?’

Poirot retrieved his laundress’s communication, apologized gracefully once more, and left the room.

He paused for a moment outside on the landing. It was a spacious one. Directly facing him was a big old oak settle with a refectory table in front of it. On the table were magazines. There were also two arm-chairs and a table with flowers. It reminded him a little of a dentist’s waiting-room.

The butler was in the hall below waiting to let him out.

‘Can I get you a taxi, sir?’

‘No, I thank you. The night is fine. I will walk.’

Hercule Poirot paused a moment on the pavement waiting for a lull in the traffic before crossing the busy street.

A frown creased his forehead. ‘No,’ he said to himself. ‘I do not understand at all. Nothing makes sense. Regrettable to have to admit it, but I, Hercule Poirot, am completely baffled.’

That was what might be termed the first act of the drama. The second act followed a week later. It opened with a telephone call from one John Stillingfleet, MD.

He said with a remarkable lack of medical decorum:

‘That you, Poirot, old horse? Stillingfleet here.’

‘Yes, my friend. What is it?’

‘I’m speaking from Northway House – Benedict Farley’s.’

‘Ah, yes?’ Poirot’s voice quickened with interest. ‘What of – Mr Farley?’

‘Farley’s dead. Shot himself this afternoon.’

There was a pause, then Poirot said:

‘Yes . . .’

‘I notice you’re not overcome with surprise. Know something about it, old horse?’

‘Why should you think that?’

‘Well, it isn’t brilliant deduction or telepathy or anything like that. We found a note from Farley to you making an appointment about a week ago.’

‘I see.’

‘We’ve got a tame police inspector here – got to be careful, you know, when one of these millionaire blokes bumps himself off. Wondered whether you could throw any light on the case. If so, perhaps you’d come round?’

‘I will come immediately.’

‘Good for you, old boy. Some dirty work at the crossroads – eh?’

Poirot merely repeated that he would set forth immediately.

‘Don’t want to spill the beans over the telephone? Quite right. So long.’

A quarter of an hour later Poirot was sitting in the library, a low long room at the back of Northway House on the ground floor. There were five other persons in the room: Inspector Barnett, Dr Stillingfleet, Mrs Farley, the widow of the millionaire, Joanna Farley, his only daughter, and Hugo Cornworthy,