'In the meantime my friend Mr Pearson was in a great state of agitation. He strode up and down my room, uttering great lamentations.

'"But you must have some ideas, M. Poirot!" he kept urging. "Surely you must have some ideas?"

'"Certainly I have ideas," I replied cautiously. "That is the trouble - one has too many; therefore they all lead in different directions."

'"For instance?" he suggested.

'"For instance - the taxi-driver. We have only his word for it that he drove the two men to that house. That is one idea. Then was it really that house they went to? Supposing that they left the taxi there, passed through the house and out by another entrance and went elsewhere?"

'Mr Pearson seemed struck by that.

'"But you do nothing but sit and think? Can't we do something?"

'He was of an impatient temperament, you comprehend.

'"Monsieur," I said with dignity, "it is not for Hercule Poirot to run up and down the evil-smelling streets of Limehouse like a little dog of no breeding. Be calm. My agents are at work."

'On the following day I had news for him. The two men had indeed passed through the house in question, but their real objective was a small eating-house close to the river. They were seen to pass in there, and Lester came out alone.

'And then, figure to yourself, Hastings, an idea of the most unreasonable seized this Mr Pearson!

Nothing would suit him but that we should go ourselves to this eating-house and make investigations. I argued and prayed, but he would not listen. He talked of disguising himself - he even suggested that I - I should - I hesitate to say it - should shave off my moustache! Yes, rien que ça! I pointed out to him that that was an idea ridiculous and absurd. One destroys not a thing of beauty wantonly. Besides, shall not a Belgian gentleman with a moustache desire to see life and smoke the opium just as readily as one without a moustache?

'Eh bien, he gave in on that, but he still insisted on his project. He turned up that evening - Mon Dieu, what a figure! He wore what he called the "pea-jacket", his chin, it was dirty and unshaved; he had a scarf of the vilest that offended the nose. And figure to yourself, he was enjoying himself!

Truly, the English are mad! He made some changes in my own appearance. I permitted it. Can one argue with a maniac? We started out - after all, could I let him go alone, a child dressed up to act the charades?'

'Of course you couldn't,' I replied.

'To continue - we arrived. Mr Pearson talked English of the strangest. He represented himself to be a man of the sea. He talked of "lubbers" and "focselles" and I know not what. It was a low little room with many Chinese in it. We ate of peculiar dishes. Ah, Dieu, mon estomac!' Poirot clasped that portion of his anatomy tenderly before continuing. 'Then there came to us the proprietor, a Chinaman with a face of evil smiles.