“There is a grease spot on the waistcoat,” objected Poirot. “A morceau of Filet de sole à la Jeanette alighted there when I was lunching at the Ritz last Tuesday.”

“There is no spot there now, sir,” said George reproachfully. “I have removed it.”

“ Très bien! ” said Poirot. “I am pleased with you, Georges.”

“Thank you, sir.”

There was a pause, and then Poirot murmured dreamily: