Poirot rose to depart. He flung out his last question as though it was of absolutely no importance, but I knew better.

“Had he anything to eat or drink?”

“A whisky and soda, I think.”

“Thank you. Dr. Savaronoff. I will disturb you no longer.”

Ivan was in the hall to show us out. Poirot lingered on the threshold.

“The flat below this, do you know who lives there?”

“Sir Charles Kingwell, a member of Parliament, sir. It has been let furnished lately, though.”

“Thank you.”

We went out into the bright winter sunlight.