"Yes, yes. M. Poirot's rooms. Yes, Captain Hastings speaking. Oh, it's you, Mr. McNeil! (McNeil and Hodgson

were Poirot's solicitors.) I'll tell him. Yes, we'll

come round at once."

I replaced the receiver and turned to Poirot, my eyes

dancing with excitement.

"I say, Poirot, there's a woman there. Friend of

Claud Darrell's. Miss Flossie Monro. McNeil wants you

to come round."

"At the instant!" cried Poirot, disappearing into his bedroom, and reappearing with a hat.

A taxi soon took us to our destination, and we were

ushered into Mr. McNeil's private office. Sitting in the arm-chair facing the solicitor was a somewhat lurid

looking lady no longer in her first youth. Her hair was

of an impossible yellow, and was prolific in curls over

each ear, her eyelids were heavily blackened, and she

had by no means forgotten the rouge and the lip salve.

"Ah, here is M. Poirot.'" said Mr. McNeil. "M. Poirot, this is Miss—er—Monro, who has very kindly

called to give us some information."

"Ah, but that is most kind!" cried Poirot.

He came forward with great empressement, and

shook the lady warmly by the hand.

"Mademoiselle blooms like a flower in this dry-asdust old office." he added, careless of the feelings of

Mr. McNeil.

This outrageous flattery was not without effect. Miss

Monro blushed and simpered.

"Oh, go on now, Mr. Poirot!" she exclaimed. "I know what you Frenchmen are like."

"Mademoiselle, we are not mute like Englishmen

before beauty. Not that I am a Frenchman—1 am a

Belgian, you see."

"I've been to Ostend myself," said Miss Monro. The whole affair, as Poirot would have said, was

marching splendidly.

"And so you can tell us something about Mr. Claud

Darrell?" continued Poirot.

"I knew Mr. Darrell very well at one time," explained the lady. "And I saw your advertisement, being out of a shop for the moment, and my time being my own, I said

154 Agatha Christie

to myself: There, they want to know about poor old

Claudie--lawyers, too--maybe it's a fortune looking

|| for the rightful heir, I'd better go round at once." Mr. McNeil rose.

"Well, Monsieur Poirot, shall I leave you for a little conversation with Miss Monro?"

"You are too amiable. But stay--a little idea presents itself to me. The hour of the dejeuner approaches. Mademoiselle will perhaps honour me by coming out to

luncheon with me?"

Miss Monro's eyes glistened. It struck me that she was

in exceedingly low water, and that the chance of a

square meal was not to be despised.

A few minutes later saw us all in a taxi, bound for one

of London's most expensive restaurants. Once arrived

there, Poirot ordered a most delectable lunch, and then

turned to his guest.

"And for wine, mademoiselle? What do you say to

champagne?"

Miss Monro said nothing--or everything.

The meal started pleasantly. Poirot replenished the

lady's glass with thoughtful assiduity, and gradually slid on to the topic nearest his heart.

"The poor Mr. Darrell. What a pity he is not with