I apologized humbly, and Poirot, after replacing the offending volumes, each in its appointed place, went out and left me to uninterrupted enjoyment of my selected book.
I must admit, however, that I was half asleep when Mrs. Pearson’s knock at the door aroused me.
“A telegram for you, captain.”
I tore the orange envelope open without much interest.
Then I sat as though turned to stone.
It was a cable from Bronsen, my manager out at the South American ranch, and it ran as follows:
Mrs. Hastings disappeared yesterday, feared been kidnapped by some gang calling itself big four cable instructions have notified police but no clue as yet
I waved Mrs. Pearson out of the room, and sat as though stunned, reading the words over and over again. Cinderella—kidnapped! In the hands of the infamous Big Four! God, what could I do?
Poirot! I must have Poirot. He would advise me. He would checkmate them somehow. In a few minutes now, he would be back. I must wait patiently until then. But Cinderella—in the hands of the Big Four!
Another knock. Mrs. Pearson put her head in once more.
“A note for you, captain—brought by a heathen Chinaman. He’s a-waiting downstairs.”
I seized it from her. It was brief and to the point.
If you ever wish to see your wife again, go with the bearer of this note immediately. Leave no message for your friend