“Then I suppose he will have to. He can come along this morning if he likes.”

It was a very fresh and debonair Poirot who was ushered in. He did not seem to see any lack of cordiality in the millionaire’s manner, and chatted pleasantly about various trifles. He was in London, he explained, to see his doctor. He mentioned the name of an eminent surgeon.

“No, no, pas la guerre ⁠—a memory of my days in the police force, a bullet of a rascally apache.”

He touched his left shoulder and winced realistically.

“I always consider you a lucky man, Monsieur Van Aldin; you are not like our popular idea of American millionaires, martyrs to the dyspepsia.”

“I am pretty tough,” said Van Aldin. “I lead a very simple life, you know; plain fare and not too much of it.”