“I’m awfully sorry, Poirot,” I murmured, rather crestfallen. “I thought I’d downed him all right.”

“Yes, that was a Japanese trick, I fancy. Do not distress yourself, mon ami . All went according to plan⁠—his plan. That is what I wanted.”

“What’s this?” I cried, pouncing on a brown object that lay on the floor.

It was a slim pocketbook of brown leather, and had evidently fallen from our visitor’s pocket during his struggle with me. It contained two receipted bills in the name of M. Felix Laon, and a folded-up piece of paper which made my heart beat faster. It was a half sheet of notepaper on which a few words were scrawled in pencil, but they were words of supreme importance.