At the very end of it was a table behind which four

chairs were placed. The end chair was empty, but was

draped with a mandarin's cape. On the second, smoking

a cigar, sat Mr. Abe Ryland. Leaning back in the third

chair, with her burning eyes and her nun's face, was

Madame Olivier. Number Four took his seat on the

fourth chair.

We were in the presence of the Big Four.

Never before had I felt so fully the reality and the

presence of Li Chang Yen as I did now when confronting

his empty seat. Far away in China, he yet controlled

and directed this malign organisation.

Madame Olivier gave a faint cry on seeing us. Ryland,

more self-controlled, only shifted his cigar, and raised his grizzled eyebrows.

"M. Hercule Poirot," said Ryland slowly. "This is a pleasant surprise. You put it over on us all right. We

thought you were good and buried. No matter, the game

is up now."

There was a ring as of steel in his voice. Madame

Olivier said nothing, but her eyes burned, and I disliked the slow way she smiled.

"Madame and messieurs^ I wish you good-evening," said Poirot quietly.

Something unexpected, something I had not been

prepared to hear in his voice made me look at him. He

seemed quite composed. Yet there was something about

his whole appearance that was different.

Tli

w

208 Agatha Christie

Then there was a stir of draperies behind us, and the

Countess Vera Rossakoff came in.

"Ah!" said Number Four. "Our valued and trusted lieutenant. An old friend of yours is here, my dear

lady."

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 at Poirot's

moustaches. They came off in her hand, and then, indeed, the truth was plain. For this man's upper lip was

disfigured by a small scar which completely altered the

expression of the face.

"Not Hercule Poirot," muttered Number Four. "But who can he be then?"

"I know," I cried suddenly, and then stopped dead, afraid I had ruined everything.