A cry burst from my lips.

"Not dead? Not dead?"

Ridgeway bowed his head, his features working with

emotion.

With desperate energy I pulled myself to a sitting

position.

"Poirot may be dead," I said weakly. "But his spirit lives on. I will carry on his work! Death to the Big

Four!"

Then I fell back, fainting.

^r-Tin

^

:«<«-»>»><,

^

z6

T^e ^Dying Cfiinaman

Even now I can hardly bear to write of those days in

March.

Poirot--the unique, the inimitable Hercule Poirot-dead! There was a particularly diabolical touch in the disarranged match-box, which was certain to catch his

eye, and which he would hasten to rearrange--and

thereby touch off the explosion. That, as a matter of

fact, it was I who actually precipitated the catastrophe never ceased to fill me with unavailing remorse. It was, as Doctor Ridgeway said, a perfect miracle that I had

not been killed, but had escaped with a slight concussion.

Although it had seemed to me as though I regained

consciousness almost immediately, it was in reality over twenty-four hours before I came back to life. It was not until the evening of the day following that I was able to stagger feebly into an adjoining room, and view with

177

^in

178 Agatha Christie

deep emotion the plain elm coffin which held the reIt j mains of one of the most marvellous men this world has

ever known.

From the very first moment of regaining consciousness

I had only one purpose in mind--to avenge Poirot's

death, and to hunt down the Big Four remorselessly.

I had thought that Ridgeway would have been of one

mind with me about this, but to my surprise the good

doctor seemed unaccountably lukewarm.

"Get back to South America" was his advice, tendered on every occasion. Why attempt the impossible?

Put as delicately as possible, his opinion amounted to

this:--If Poirot, the unique Poirot, had failed, was it

likely that I should succeed?

But I was obstinate. Putting aside any question as to

whether I had the necessary qualifications for the task

(and I may say in passing that I did not entirely agree

with his views on this point), I had worked so long with Poirot that I knew his methods by heart, and felt fully

capable of taking up the work where he had laid it

down; it was, with me, a question of feeling. My friend

had been foully murdered. Was I to go tamely back to

South America without an effort to bring his murderers

to justice?

I said all this and more to Ridgeway, who listened attentively enough.

"All the same," he said when I had finished, "my advice does not vary. I am earnestly convinced that Poirot

himself, if he were here, would urge you to return. In his name, I beg of you, Hastings, abandon these wild ideas

and go back to your ranch."

To that only one answer was possible, and, shaking

his head sadly, he said no more.