“Do not move, I pray of you, madame. You will regret it if you do. Are you acquainted at all with the properties of curare? The South American Indians use it as an arrow poison. A scratch with it means death. Some tribes use a little blowpipe⁠—I, too, have a little blowpipe constructed so as to look exactly like a cigarette. I have only to blow⁠ ⁠… Ah! you start. Do not move, madame. The mechanism of this cigarette is most ingenious. One blows⁠—and a tiny dart resembling a fishbone flies through the air⁠—to find its mark. You do not wish to die, madame. Therefore, I beg of you to release my friend Hastings from his bonds. I cannot use my hands, but I can turn my head⁠—so⁠—you are still covered, madame. Make no mistake, I beg of you.”

Slowly, with shaking hands, and rage and hate convulsing her face, she bent down and did his bidding. I was free. Poirot’s voice gave me instructions.

“Your bonds will now do for the lady, Hastings. That is right. Is she securely fastened? Then release me, I pray of you. It is a fortunate circumstance she sent away her henchmen. With a little luck we may hope to find the way out unobstructed.”