yet controlled and directed this malign organization.
Madame Olivier gave a faint cry on seeing us. Ryland, more self-controlled, only shifted his cigar, and raised his grizzled eyebrows.
“ M. Hercule Poirot,” said Ryland slowly. “This is a pleasant surprise. You put it over on us all right. We thought you were good and buried. No matter, the game is up now.”
There was a ring as of steel in his voice. Madame Olivier said nothing, but her eyes burned, and I disliked the slow way she smiled.
“Madame and messieurs, I wish you good evening,” said Poirot quietly.
Something unexpected, something I had not been prepared to hear in his voice made me look at him. He seemed quite composed. Yet there was something about his whole appearance that was different.
Then there was a stir of draperies behind us, and the Countess Vera Rossakoff came in.
“Ah!” said Number Four. “Our valued and trusted lieutenant. An old friend of yours is here, my dear lady.”
The countess whirled round with her usual vehemence of movement.
“God in Heaven!” she cried. “It is the little man! Ah! but he has the nine lives of a cat! Oh, little man, little man! Why did you mix yourself up in this?”
“Madame,” said Poirot with a bow. “Me, like the great Napoleon, I am on the side of the big battalions.”
As he spoke I saw a sudden suspicion flash into her eyes, and at the same moment I knew the truth which subconsciously I already sensed.
The man beside me was not Hercule Poirot.