“One higher than the Préfet . One whose word was once law in Belgium⁠—and shall be again! That England has sworn!”

Poirot’s hand flew swiftly to a dramatic salute. “Amen to that! Ah, but my Master does not forget.⁠ ⁠… Messieurs, I, Hercule Poirot, will serve you faithfully. Heaven only send that it will be in time. But this is dark⁠—dark.⁠ ⁠… I cannot see.”

“Well, Poirot,” I cried impatiently, as the door closed behind the Ministers, “what do you think?”

My friend was busy packing a minute suitcase, with quick, deft movements. He shook his head thoughtfully.

“I do not know what to think. My brains desert me.”

“Why, as you said, kidnap him, when a knock on the head would do as well?” I mused.