is probably in the Felsenlabyrynth."

Poirot nodded.

"Come, mon ami" he said to me. "Let us go down and sit upon the terrace and enjoy the sunlight."

"You think that wise?" I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

The sunlight was marvellous--in fact the glare was

almost too great for me. We had some creamy coffee instead of tea, then went upstairs and unpacked our few

belongings. Poirot was in his most unapproachable

mood, lost in a kind of reverie. Once or twice he shook

his head and sighed.

I had been rather intrigued by a man who had got out

of our train at Bolzano, and had been met by a private

THE BIG FOUR 201

car. He was a small man, and the thing about him that

had attracted my attention was that he was almost as

much muffled up as Poirot had been. More so, indeed,

for in addition to greatcoat and muffler, he was wearing huge blue spectacles. I was convinced that here we had

an emissary of the Big Four. Poirot did not seem very

impressed by my idea, but when, leaning out of my bedroom window, I reported that the man in question was

strolling about in the vicinity of the hotel, he admitted that there might be something in it.

I urged my friend not to go down to dinner, but he insisted on doing so. We entered the dining-room rather

late, and were shown to a table by the window. As we

sat down, our attention was attracted by an exclamation

and a crash of falling china. A dish of haricots verts had been upset over a man who was sitting at the table next

to ours.

The head waiter came up and was vociferous in

apologies.

Presently, when the offending waiter was serving us

with soup, Poirot spoke to him.

"An unfortunate accident, that. But it was not your fault."

"Monsieur saw that? No, indeed it was not my fault. The gentleman half sprung up from his chair--I thought

he was going to have an attack of some kind. I could not save the catastrophe."

I saw Poirot's eyes shining with the green light I knew

so well, and as the waiter departed he said to me in a low voice:-"You see, Hastings, the effect of Hercule Poirot-alive and in the flesh?"

"You think--"

I had not time to continue. I felt Poirot's hand on my

202 Agatha Christie

knee, as life whispered excitedly:

"Look, Hastings, look. His trick with the bread! Number Four!" Sure enough, the man at the next table to ours, his

face unusually pale, was dabbing a small piece of bread

mechanically about the table.

I studied him carefully. His face, clean-shaven and

puffily fat, was of a pasty, unhealthy sallowness, with

heavy pouches under the eyes and deep lines running

from his nose to the corners of his mouth. His age might have been anything from thirty-five to forty-five. In no particular did he resemble any one of the characters