“Would it interest you, Hastings, to go down and hear what our visitor’s particular little trouble is? Make him all my excuses.”

Roger Havering was a man of about forty, well set up and of smart appearance. His face, however, was haggard, and he was evidently labouring under great agitation.

“Captain Hastings? You are Monsieur Poirot’s partner, I understand. It is imperative that he should come with me to Derbyshire today.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” I replied. “Poirot is ill in bed⁠—influenza.”

His face fell.

“Dear me, that is a great blow to me.”

“The matter on which you want to consult him is serious?”

“My God, yes! My uncle, the best friend I have in the world, was foully murdered last night.”