have placed them in a certain safe deposit. In the event of my death, M. Crowther, I authorise you to take

charge of those papers and make what use you can of

them. And now, messieurs, I wish you good day."

Desjardeaux merely bowed coldly, but Crowther

sprang up and held out his hand.

"You have converted me, M. Poirot. Fantastic as the whole thing seems, I believe utterly in the truth of what you have told us."

Ingles left at the same time as we did.

"I am not disappointed with the interview," said Poirot, as we walked along. "I did not expect to convince Desjardeaux, but I have at least ensured that, if I

die, my knowledge does not die with me. And I have

made one or two converts. Pas si mail"

"I'm with you, as you know," said Ingles. "By the way, I'm going out to China as soon as I can get off."

"Is that wise?"

"No," said Ingles dryly. "But it's necessary. One must do what one can."

THE BIG FOUR 167

"Ah, you are a brave man!" cried Poirot with emotion.

"If we were not in the street, I would embrace

you."

I fancied that Ingles looked rather relieved.

"I don't suppose that I shall be in any more danger in China than you are in London," he growled.

"That is possibly true enough," admitted Poirot. "I hope that they will not succeed in massacring Hastings

also, that is all. That would annoy me greatly."

I interrupted this cheerful conversation to remark

that I had no intention of letting myself be massacred,

and shortly afterwards Ingles parted from us.

For some time we went along in silence, which Poirot

at length broke by uttering a totally unexpected remark.

"I think--I really think--that I shall have to bring my brother into this."

"Your brother," I cried, astonished. "I never knew you had a brother?"

"You surprise me, Hastings. Do you not know that

all celebrated detectives have brothers who would be

even more celebrated than they are were it not for constitutional indolence?"

Poirot employs a peculiar manner sometimes which

makes it wellnigh impossible to know whether he is

jesting or in earnest. That manner was very evident at

the moment.

"What is your brother's name?" I asked, trying to adjust myself to this new idea.

"Achille Poirot," replied Poirot gravely. "He lives near Spa in Belgium."

"What does he do?" I asked with "some curiosity, putting aside a half-formed wonder as to the character

and disposition of the late Madame Poirot, and her

classical taste in Christian names.

"He does nothing. He is, as I tell, of a singularly in 'II 168 Agatha Christie

dolent disposition. But his abilities are hardly less than my own--which is saying a great deal."

"Is he like you to look at?"

"Not unlike. But not nearly so handsome. And he

wears no moustaches."

"Is he older than you, or younger?"

"He happens to have been born on the same day."