M. Papopolous Breakfasts
M. Papopolous was at breakfast. Opposite him sat his daughter, Zia.
There was a knock at the sitting-room door, and a chasseur entered with a card which he brought to M. Papopolous. The latter scrutinised it, raised his eyebrows, and passed it over to his daughter.
“Ah!” said M. Papopolous, scratching his left ear thoughtfully, “Hercule Poirot. I wonder now.”
Father and daughter looked at each other.
“I saw him yesterday at the tennis,” said M. Papopolous. “Zia, I hardly like this.”