A car drove up to the villa early one morning, such an unusual event in our peaceful life that I hurried down to satisfy my curiosity. I found Poirot talking to a pleasant-faced young fellow of about my own age.

He introduced me.

“This is Captain Harvey, Hastings, one of the most famous members of your Intelligence Service.”

“Not famous at all, I’m afraid,” said the young man, laughing pleasantly.

“Not famous except to those in the know, I should have said. Most of Captain Harvey’s friends and acquaintances consider him an amiable but brainless young man⁠—devoted only to the trot of the fox or whatever the dance is called.”

We both laughed.

“Well, well, to business,” said Poirot. “You are of opinion the time has come, then?”