With every minute that passed, my hopes rose.

Suddenly they were dashed to pieces. I heard footsteps⁠—cautious footsteps, but footsteps nevertheless. I writhed in impotent agony. They came down the path, paused, and then Poirot himself appeared, his head a little on one side, peering into the shadows.

I heard the growl of satisfaction Ryland gave as he raised the big automatic and shouted, “Hands up.” Deaves sprang forward as he did so, and took Poirot in the rear. The ambush was complete.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hercule Poirot,” said the American grimly.

Poirot’s self-possession was marvellous. He did not turn a hair. But I saw his eyes searching in the shadows.

“My friend? He is here?”

“Yes, you are both in the trap⁠—the trap of the Big Four.”