“Always looking for romance! You are incorrigible. It would serve you right if Sonia Daviloff turned out to be our friend and enemy the Countess Vera Rossakoff.”

At the mention of the countess, my face clouded over.

“Surely, Poirot, you don’t suspect⁠—”

“But, no, no. It was a joke! I have not the Big Four on the brain to that extent, whatever Japp may say.”

The door of the flat was opened to us by a manservant with a peculiarly wooden face. It seemed impossible to believe that that impassive countenance could ever display emotion.

Poirot presented a card on which Japp had scribbled a few words of introduction, and we were shown into a low, long room furnished with rich hangings and curios. One or two wonderful icons hung upon the walls, and exquisite Persian rugs lay upon the floor. A samovar stood upon a table.