I was not quite prepared for such a sudden demand. I racked my brains to remember certain details.

“I hope you won’t mind,” I stammered. “I may have been a little⁠—er⁠— personal now and then.”

“Oh! I comprehend perfectly; you have referred to me as comic⁠—as, perhaps, ridiculous now and then? It matters not at all. Hastings, he also was not always polite. Me, I have the mind above such trivialities.”

Still somewhat doubtful, I rummaged in the drawers of my desk and produced an untidy pile of manuscript which I handed over to him. With an eye on possible publication in the future, I had divided the work into chapters, and the night before I had brought it up to date with an account of Miss Russell’s visit. Poirot had therefore twenty chapters.