“Mais, oui—to make sure of my coming! He reread the letter and was dissatisfied. It was not strong enough!”
He paused, and then added softly, his eyes shining with that green light that always betokened inward excitement: “And so, mon ami, since that postscript was added, not on impulse, but soberly, in cold blood, the urgency is very great, and we must reach him as soon as possible.”
“Merlinville,” I murmured thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of it, I think.”
Poirot nodded.
“It is a quiet little place—but chic! It lies about midway between Bolougne and Calais. It is rapidly becoming the fashion. Rich English people who wish to be quiet are taking it up. M. Renauld has a house in England, I suppose?”
“Yes, in Rutland Gate, as far as I remember. Also a big place in the country, somewhere in Hertfordshire. But I really know very little about him, he doesn’t do much in a social way. I believe he has large South American interests in the City, and has spent most of his life out in Chile and the Argentino.”
“Well, we shall hear all details from the man himself. Come, let us pack. A small suit-case each, and then a taxi to Victoria.”
“And the Countess?” I inquired with a smile.
“Ah! je m’en fiche! Her case was certainly not interesting.”
“Why so sure of that?”
“Because in that case she would have come, not written. A woman cannot wait—always remember that, Hastings.”
Eleven o’clock saw our departure from Victoria on our way to Dover. Before starting Poirot had despatched a telegram to Mr. Renauld giving the time of our arrival at Calais. “I’m surprised you haven’t invested in a few bottles
