leave it whilst we were on guard outside.

Eventually we got in. It was plain that some one had

been before us. The contents of drawers and cupboards

were everywhere.

The Terrible Catastrophe

It was after the tragic death of Miss Flossie Monro that I began to be aware of a change in Poirot. Up to now, his

invincible confidence in himself had stood the test. But it seemed as though, at last, the long strain was beginning to tell. His manner was grave and brooding, and

his nerves were on edge. In these days he was as jumpy

as a cat. He avoided all discussion of the Big Four as far as possible, and seemed to throw himself into his ordinary work with almost his old ardour. Nevertheless, I

knew that he was secretly active in the big matter.

Extraordinary-looking Slavs were constantly calling to

see him, and though he vouchsafed no explanation as to

these mysterious activities, I realised that he was building some new defence or weapon of opposition with the

help of these somewhat repulsive-looking foreigners.

Once, purely by chance, I happened to see the entries in his pass-book--he had asked me to verify some small

161

item--and I noticed the paying out of a huge sum --a

huge sum even for Poirot who was coining money nowadays--to some Russian with apparently every letter of

the alphabet in his name.

But he gave no clue as to the line on which he proposed

to operate. Only over and over again he gave utterance

to one phrase. "It is the greatest mistake to

underestimate your adversary. Remember that, mon

ami." And I realised that that was the pitfall he was striving at all costs to avoid.

So matters went on until the end of March, and then

one morning Poirot made a remark which startled me

considerably.

"This morning, my friend, I should recommend the

best suit. We go to call upon the Home Secretary."

"Indeed? That is very exciting. He has called you in to take up a case?"

"Not exactly. The interview is of my seeking. You

may remember my saying that I once did him some

small service? He is inclined to be foolishly enthusiastic over my capabilities in consequence, and I am about to

trade on this attitude of his. As you know, the French

Premier, M. Desjardeaux is over in London, and at my

request the Home Secretary had arranged for him to be

present at our little conference this morning."

The Right Honourable Sydney Crowther, His Majesty's

Secretary of State for Home Affairs, was a wellknown

and popular figure. A man of some fifty years of

age, with a quizzical expression and shrewd gray eyes,

he received us with that delightful bonhomie of manner

which was well known to be one of his principal assets.

Standing with his back to the fireplace was a tall thin

man with a pointed black beard and a sensitive face.

"M. Desjardeaux," said Crowther. "Allow me to in