us."

"Yes, indeed," sighed Miss Monro. "Poor boy, I do wonder what's become of him."

"It is a long time since you have seen him, yes?"

"Oh, simply ages--not since the war. He was a funny boy, Claudie, very close about things, never told you a

word about himself. But, of course, that all fits in if he's a missing heir. Is it a title, Mr. Poirot?"

"Alas, a mere heritage," said Poirot unblushingly.

"But you see, it may be a question of identification. That is why it is necessary for us to find some one who

FR1;THE BIG FOUR 155

knew him very well indeed. You knew him very well, did

you not, mademoiselle."

"I don't mind telling you, Mr. Poirot. You're a

gentleman. You know how to order a lunch for a lady-which is more than some of these young whippersnappers do nowadays. Downright mean, I call it. As I was

saying, you being a Frenchman won't be shocked. Ah,

you Frenchmen! Naughty, naughty!" She wagged her

finger at him in an excess of archness. "Well, there it was, me and Claudie, two young things--what else

could you expect? And I've still a kindly feeling for him. Though, mind you, he didn't treat me well--no, he

didn't--he didn't treat me well at all. Not as a lady

should be treated. They're all the same when it comes to a question of money."

"No, no, mademoiselle, do not say that," protested Poirot, filling up her glass once more. "Could you now describe this Mr. Darrell to me?"

"He wasn't anything so very much to look at," said Flossie Monro dreamily. "Neither tall nor short, you know, but quite well set up. Spruce looking. Eyes a sort of blue-gray. And more or less fair-haired, I suppose.

But oh, what an artist! / never saw any one to touch him in the profession! He'd have made his name before now

if it hadn't been for jealousy. Ah, Mr. Poirot, jealousy--you wouldn't believe it, you really wouldn't,

what we artists have to suffer through jealousy. Why, I

remember once at Manchester--"

We displayed what patience we could in listening to a

long complicated story about a pantomime, and the infamous conduct of the principal boy. Then Poirot led

her gently back to the subject of Claud Darrell.

"It is very interesting, all this that you are able to tell us, mademoiselle, about Mr. Darrell. Women are such

wonderful observers--they see everything, they notice

the little detail that escapes the mere man. I have seen a woman identify one man out of a dozen others--and

why, do you think? She had observed that he had a trick

of stroking his nose when he was agitated. Now would a

man ever have thought of noticing a thing like that?"

"Did you ever!" cried Miss Monro. "I suppose we do notice things. I remember Claudie, now I come to think

of it, always fiddling with his bread at table. He'd get a little piece between his fingers and then dab it round to pick up crumbs. I've seen him do it a hundred times.