His request was instantly acceded to, and I accompanied him upstairs, where he collapsed on the bed, groaning heavily.

For the first minute or two I had been taken in, but I had quickly realized that Poirot was⁠—as he would have put it⁠—playing the comedy, and that his object was to be left alone upstairs near the patient’s room.

Hence I was quite prepared when, the instant we were alone, he sprang up.

“Quick, Hastings, the window. There is ivy outside. We can climb down before they begin to suspect.”

“Climb down?”

“Yes, we must get out of this house at once. You saw him at dinner?”

“The doctor?”