I left him with them. I was obliged to go out to a case at some distance away and it was past eight o’clock when I got back, to be greeted with a plate of hot dinner on a tray, and the announcement that Poirot and my sister had supped together at half-past seven, and that the former had then gone to my workshop to finish his reading of the manuscript.

“I hope, James,” said my sister, “that you’ve been careful in what you say about me in it?”

My jaw dropped. I had not been careful at all.

“Not that it matters very much,” said Caroline, reading my expression correctly. “ M. Poirot will know what to think. He understands me much better than you do.”

I went into the workshop. Poirot was sitting by the window. The manuscript lay neatly piled on a chair beside him. He laid his hand on it and spoke.