you with nothing to do. A most sensational problem.

The man from the unknown. Who is he? What is he?

Ah, sapristi, but I would give two years of my life to

have this boat go to-morrow instead of to-day. There is

something here very curious--very interesting. But one

must have time--time. It may be days--or even months

--before he will be able to tell us what he came to tell."

"I'll do my best, Poirot," I assured him. "I'll try to be an efficient substitute."

THE BIG FOUR 9

"Yees."

His rejoinder struck me as being a shade doubtful. I

picked up the sheet of paper.

"If I were writing a story," I said lightly, "I should weave this in with your latest idiosyncrasy and call it The Mystery of the Big Four." I tapped the pencilled

figures as I spoke.

And then I started, for our invalid, roused suddenly

from his stupor, sat up in his chair and said clearly and distinctly:

"LiChangYen."

He had the look of a man suddenly awakened from

sleep. Poirot made a sign to me not to speak. The man

went on. He spoke in a clear, high voice, and something

in his enunciation made me feel that he was quoting

from some written report or lecture.

"Li Chang Yen may be regarded as representing the

brains of the Big Four. He is the controlling and motive force. I have designated him, therefore, as Number

One. Number Two is seldom mentioned by name. He is

represented by an 'S' with two lines through it--the sign for a dollar; also by two stripes and a star. It may be

conjectured, therefore, that he is an American subject,

and that he represents the power of wealth. There seems

no doubt that Number Three is a woman, and her nationality French. It is possible that she may be one of the

sirens of the demi-monde, but nothing is known definitely. Number Four--"

His voice faltered and broke. Poirot leant forward.

"Yes," he prompted eagerly. "Number Four?" His eyes were fastened on the man's face. Some overmastering terror seemed to be gaining the day; the

features were distorted and twisted.

"The destroyer," gasped the man. Then, with a final 10 Agatha Christie

convulsive movement, he fell back in a dead faint.

"Mon Dieu!" whispered Poirot, "I was right then. I was right."

"You think--?"

He interrupted me.

"Carry him on to the bed in my room. I have not a

minute to lose if I would catch my train. Not that I want to catch it. Oh, that I could miss it with a clear conscience!

But I gave my word. Come, Hastings!"

Leaving our mysterious visitor in the charge of Mrs.

Pearson, we drove away, and duly caught the train by

the skin of our teeth. Poirot was alternately silent and loquacious. He would sit staring out of the window like

a man lost in a dream, apparently not hearing a word

that I said to him. Then, reverting to animation suddenly, he would shower injunctions and commands