We had just finished our soup, when there was a scream outside the door, and the sound of breaking crockery. We jumped up. The parlourmaid appeared, her hand to her heart.

“It was a man⁠—standing in the passage.”

Poirot rushed out, returning quickly.

“There is no one there.”

“Isn’t there, sir?” said the parlourmaid weakly. “Oh, it did give me a start!”

“But why?”

She dropped her voice to a whisper.

“I thought⁠—I thought it was the master⁠—it looked like ’im.”