He said with a remarkable lack of medical decorum:

‘That you, Poirot, old horse? Stillingfleet here.’

‘Yes, my friend. What is it?’

‘I’m speaking from Northway House—Benedict Farley’s.’

‘Ah, yes?’ Poirot’s voice quickened with interest. ‘What of—Mr Farley?’

‘Farley’s dead. Shot himself this afternoon.’

There was a pause, then Poirot said:

‘Yes . . .’

‘I notice you’re not overcome with surprise. Know something about it, old horse?’

‘Why should you think that?’

‘Well, it isn’t brilliant deduction or telepathy or anything like that. We found a note from Farley to you making an appointment about a week ago.’

‘I see.’

‘We’ve got a tame police inspector here—got to be careful, you know, when one of these millionaire blokes bumps himself off. Wondered whether you could throw any light on the case. If so, perhaps you’d come round?’

‘I will come immediately.’

‘Good for you, old boy. Some dirty work at the crossroads—eh?’

Poirot merely repeated that he would set forth immediately.

‘Don’t want to spill the beans over the telephone? Quite right. So long.’

A quarter of an hour later Poirot was sitting in the library, a low long room at the back of Northway House on the ground floor. There were five other persons in the room: Inspector Barnett, Dr Stillingfleet, Mrs Farley, the widow of the millionaire, Joanna Farley, his only daughter, and Hugo Cornworthy, his private secretary.

Of these, Inspector Barnett was a discreet soldierly-looking man. Dr Stillingfleet, whose professional manner was entirely different from his telephonic style, was a tall, long-faced young man of thirty. Mrs Farley was obviously very much younger than her husband. She was a handsome dark-haired woman. Her mouth was hard and her black eyes gave absolutely no clue to her emotions. She appeared perfectly self-possessed. Joanna Farley had fair hair and a freckled face. The prominence of her nose and chin was clearly inherited from her father. Her eyes were intelligent and shrewd. Hugo Cornworthy was a good-looking young fellow, very correctly dressed. He seemed intelligent and efficient.

After greetings and introductions, Poirot narrated simply and clearly the circumstances of his visit and the story told him by Benedict Farley. He could not complain of any lack of interest.

‘Most extraordinary story I’ve ever heard!’ said the inspector. ‘A dream, eh? Did you know anything about this, Mrs Farley?’

She bowed her head.

‘My husband mentioned it to me. It upset him very much. I—I told him it was indigestion—his diet, you know, was very peculiar—and suggested his calling in Dr Stillingfleet.’

The young man shook his head. ‘He didn’t consult me. From M. Poirot’s story, I gather he went to Harley Street.’

‘I would like your advice on that point, Doctor,’ said Poirot. ‘Mr Farley told me that he consulted three specialists. What do you think of the theories they advanced?’

Stillingfleet frowned.

‘It’s difficult to say. You’ve got to take into account that what he passed on to you wasn’t exactly what had been said to him. It was a layman’s interpretation.’