“But replace then the others on the bookshelf! Never, never shall I see you embrace the order and the method. Mon Dieu , what then is a bookshelf for?”

I apologized humbly, and Poirot, after replacing the offending volumes, each in its appointed place, went out and left me to uninterrupted enjoyment of my selected book.

I must admit, however, that I was half asleep when Mrs. Pearson’s knock at the door aroused me.

“A telegram for you, captain.”

I tore the orange envelope open without much interest.

Then I sat as though turned to stone.

It was a cable from Bronsen, my manager out at the South American ranch, and it ran as follows: