"No other little detail you can tell me about--him?" he asked.

"I don't think so."

"Not even--that he was left-handed?"

"You're a wizard, Moosior Poirot. How did you

know that? He was left-handed. Not that it's anything

to do with the case."

"Nothing whatever," agreed Poirot hastily, seeing that Japp was slightly ruffled. "My little joke--that was all. I like to play you the trick, see you."

We went out upon an amicable understanding.

The following morning saw us wending our way to

Dr. Savaronoff's flat in Westminster.

"Sonia Daviloff," I mused. "It's a pretty name." Poirot stopped, and threw me a look of despair.

"Always looking for romance! You are incorrigible.

It would serve you right if Sonia Daviloff turned out to be our friend and enemy the Countess Vera Rossakoff."

At the mention of the countess, my face clouded over.

"Surely, Poirot, you don't suspect--"

"But, no, no. It was a joke! I have not the Big Four on the brain to that extent, whatever Japp may say." The door of the flat was opened to us by a man-servant

with a peculiarly wooden face. It seemed impossible

to believe that that impassive countenance could ever

display emotion.

Poirot presented a card on which Japp had scribbled

a few words of introduction, and we were shown into a

low, long room furnished with rich hangings and curios.

One or two wonderful ikons hung upon the walls, and

exquisite Persian rugs lay upon the floor. A samovar

stood upon a table.

I was examining one of the ikons which I judged to be

of considerable value, and turned to see Poirot prone

upon the floor. Beautiful as the rug was, it hardly

seemed to be to necessitate such close attention.

"Is it such a very wonderful specimen?" I asked.

"Eh? Oh! the rug? But no, it was not the rug I was

remarking. But it is a beautiful specimen, far too beautiful to have a large nail wantonly driven through the

middle of it. No, Hastings," as I came forward, "the nail is not there now. But the hole remains."

A sudden sound behind us made me spin round, and

Poirot spring nimbly to his feet. A girl was standing in the doorway. Her eyes, fell upon us, were dark with

suspicion. She was of medium height, with a beautiful,

rather sullen face, dark blue eyes, and very black hair

which was cut short. Her voice, when she spoke, was

rich and sonorous, and completely un-English.

"I fear my uncle will be unable to see you. He is a great invalid."

"That is a pity, but perhaps you will kindly help me instead. You are Mademoiselle Daviloff, are you not?"

"Yes, I am Sonia Daviloff. What is it you want to

know?"

"I am making some inquiries about that sad affair the night before last--the death of M. Gilmour Wilson.

What can you tell me about it?"

The girl's eyes opened wide.

"He died of heart failure--as he was playing chess."