I could see from the earnestness with which he had been speaking that Mr. Ingles was a man mounted on his hobby horse, and evidently he, too, realized that he had been carried away, for he laughed apologetically.

“But, of course,” he said, “I have no proofs, and you, like the others, will merely tell me that I have a bee in my bonnet.”

“On the contrary,” said Poirot quietly, “we have every reason to believe your story. We ourselves are more than a little interested in Li Chang Yen.”

“Very odd your knowing about him. Didn’t fancy a soul in England had ever heard of him. I’d rather like to know how you did come to hear of him⁠—if it’s not indiscreet.”