Flora’s blue eyes opened very wide. “Why, he’s Hercule Poirot! You know who I mean⁠—the private detective. They say he’s done the most wonderful things⁠—just like detectives do in books. A year ago he retired and came to live down here. Uncle knew who he was, but he promised not to tell anyone, because M. Poirot wanted to live quietly without being bothered by people.”

“So that’s who he is,” I said slowly.

“You’ve heard of him, of course?”

“I’m rather an old fogey, as Caroline tells me,” I said, “but I have just heard of him.”

“Extraordinary!” commented Caroline.

I don’t know what she was referring to⁠—possibly her own failure to discover the truth.