“Yes,” I said, in a low voice I strove to make natural. “There must be a secret way out of it somewhere. Come in and let us look for it.”
I stepped back across the threshold. In all innocence Poirot prepared to follow me.
And then something seemed to snap in my head. I saw only too clearly the part I was playing—the part of Judas.
“Back, Poirot!” I cried. “Back for your life. It’s a trap. Never mind me. Get away at once.”
Even as I spoke—or rather shouted my warning, hands gripped me like a vice. One of the Chinese servants sprang past me to grab Poirot.
I saw the latter spring back, his arm raised, then suddenly a dense volume of smoke was rising round me, choking me—killing me—
I felt myself falling—suffocating—this was death—
I came to myself slowly and painfully—all my senses dazed. The first thing I saw was Poirot’s face. He was sitting opposite me watching me with an anxious face. He gave a cry of joy when he saw me looking at him.
“Ah, you revive—you return to yourself. All is well! My friend—my poor friend!”
“Where am I?” I said painfully.
“Where? But chez vous !”
I looked round me. True enough, I was in the old familiar surroundings. And in the grate were the identical four knobs of coal I had carefully spilt there.
Poirot had followed my glance.