And, rushing forward, he enveloped me in a capacious embrace. Our conversation was incoherent and inconsequent. Ejaculations, eager questions, incomplete answers, messages from my wife, explanations as to my journey, were all jumbled up together.
“I suppose there’s someone in my old rooms?” I asked at last, when we had calmed down somewhat. “I’d love to put up here again with you.”
Poirot’s face changed with startling suddenness.
“ Mon Dieu! but what a chance épouvantable . Regard around you, my friend.”
For the first time I took note of my surroundings. Against the wall stood a vast ark of a trunk of prehistoric design. Near to it were placed a number of suitcases, ranged neatly in order of size from large to small. The inference was unmistakable.
“You are going away?”
“Yes.”
“Where to?”
“South America.”
“ What? ”
“Yes, it is a droll farce, is it not? It is to Rio I go, and every day I say to myself, I will write nothing in my letters—but oh! the surprise of the good Hastings when he beholds me!”
“But when are you going?”
Poirot looked at his watch.
“In an hour’s time.”