“And to what end? Can we produce anything to impress a coroner’s jury of your solid Britishers? Is our description of Number Four of any value? No; we shall allow them to call it ‘Accidental Death,’ and maybe, although I have not much hope, our clever murderer will pat himself on the back that he deceived Hercule Poirot in the first round.”

Poirot was right as usual. We saw no more of the man from the asylum, and the inquest, at which I gave evidence, but which Poirot did not even attend, aroused no public interest.

As, in view of his intended trip to South America, Poirot had wound up his affairs before my arrival, he had at this time no cases on hand, but although he spent most of his time in the flat I could get little out of him. He remained buried in an armchair, and discouraged my attempts at conversation.