“Oh, without doubt, Hastings, in some things they deceive themselves⁠— tant mieux ! They will learn in due time. Meanwhile we have learnt something, and to know is to be prepared.”

This last was a favourite axiom of his lately; so much so that I had begun to hate the sound of it.

“We know something, Hastings,” he continued. “Yes, we know something⁠—and that is to the good⁠—but we do not know nearly enough. We must know more.”

“In what way?”

Poirot settled himself back in his chair, straightened a box of matches which I had thrown carelessly down on the table, and assumed an attitude that I knew only too well. I saw that he was prepared to hold forth at some length.