“My dear M. Poirot.”

“And Mademoiselle Zia.” Poirot swept her a low bow.

“You will excuse us going on with our breakfast,” said M. Papopolous, pouring himself out another cup of coffee. “Your call is⁠—ahem!⁠—a little early.”

“It is scandalous,” said Poirot, “but you see, I am pressed.”

“Ah!” murmured M. Papopolous, “you are on an affair then?”

“A very serious affair,” said Poirot; “the death of Madame Kettering.”