motherly—oh! get out, Albert.”
Albert withdrew, injured.
“Queer start, that,” said Tommy. “It seems a little purposeless. Puts us on our guard. I suppose there isn’t a bomb concealed in the fireplace or anything of that kind?”
He reassured himself on that point, then he seated himself at the desk and addressed Tuppence.
“ Mon ami ,” he said. “We are here faced with a matter of the utmost gravity. You recall, do you not, the man who was No. 4. Him whom I crushed like an egg shell in the Dolomites—with the aid of high explosives, bien entendu . But he was not really dead—ah! no, they are never really dead, these super criminals. This is the man—but even more so, if I may so put it. He is the 4 squared—in other words, he is now the No. 16. You comprehend, my friend?”
“Perfectly,” said Tuppence. “You are the great Hercule Poirot.”
“Exactly. No moustaches, but lots of grey cells.”
“I’ve a feeling,” said Tuppence, “that this particular adventure will be called the ‘Triumph of Hastings.’ ”
“Never,” said Tommy. “It isn’t done. Once the idiot friend, always the idiot friend. There’s an etiquette in these matters. By the way, mon ami , can you not part your hair in the middle instead of one side? The present effect is unsymmetrical and deplorable.”
The buzzer rang sharply on Tommy’s desk. He returned the signal and Albert appeared bearing a card.
“Prince Vladiroffsky,” read Tommy, in a low voice. He looked at