although I have not much hope, our clever murderer

will pat himself on the back that he deceived Hercule

Poirot in the first round."

Poirot was right as usual. We saw no more of the man

from the asylum, and the inquest, at which I gave evidence, but which Poirot did not even attend, aroused no

public interest.

As, in view of his intended trip to South America,

Poirot had wound up his affairs before my arrival, he

had at this time no cases on hand, but although he spent most of his time in the flat I could get little out of him. He remained buried in an arm-chair, and discouraged

my attempts at conversation.

And then one morning, about a week after the mur THE BIG FOUR ^\

der, he asked me if I would care to accompany him of*

a visit he wished to make. I was pleased, for I felt h^ was making a mistake in trying to work things out so en' tirely on his own, and I wished to discuss the case will*

him. But I found he was not communicative. Even when

I asked where we were going, he would not answer.

Poirot loves being mysterious. He will never part with

a piece of information until the last possible moment. Ii»

this instance, having taken successively a 'bus and twy

trains, and arrived in the neighbourhood of one of Loa" don's most depressing southern suburbs, he consented

at last to explain matters.

"We go, Hastings, to see the one man in England

who knows most of the underground life of China."

"Indeed! Who is he?"

"A man you have never heard of--a Mr. John Ingles.

To all intents and purposes, he is a retired Civil Servant of mediocre intellect, with a house full of Chinese curios with which he bores his friends and acquaintances.

Nevertheless, I am assured by those who should know

that the only man capable of giving me the information

I seek is this same John Ingles."

A few moments more saw us ascending the steps of

The Laurels, as Mr. Ingles's residence was called. Personally, I did not notice a laurel bush of any kind, so

deduced that it had been named according to the usual

obscure nomenclature of the suburbs.

We were admitted by an impassive-faced Chinese

servant and ushered into the presence of his master. Mr. Ingles was a squarely-built man, somewhat yellow of

countenance, with deep-set eyes that were oddly reflective in character. He rose to greet us, setting aside an

open letter which he had held in his hand. He referred to it after his greeting.

"Sit down, won't you? Halsey tells me that you want 22 Agatha Christie

some information and that I may be useful to you in the

matter."

"That is so, monsieur. I ask of you if you have any knowledge of a man named Li Chang Yen?"

"That's rum--very rum indeed. How did you come

to hear about the man?"