more incoherent, as I floundered through the above speech.
Poirot sprang from his chair. I had a moment's terror that he was going to embrace me French fashion, but mercifully he refrained.
"But this is magnificent—you have then written down your impressions of the case as you went along?"
I nodded.
"Epatant!" cried Poirot. "Let me see them—this instant."
I was not quite prepared for such a sudden demand. I racked my brains to remember certain details.
"I hope you won't mind," I stammered. "I may have been a little—er—personal now and then."
"Oh! I comprehend perfectly; you have referred to me as comic—as, perhaps, ridiculous now and then? It matters not at all. Hastings, he also was not always polite. Me, I have the mind above such trivialities."
Still somewhat doubtful, I rummaged in the drawers of my desk and produced an untidy pile of manuscript which I handed over to him. With an eye on possible publication in the future, I had divided the work into chapters, and the night before I had brought it up to date with an account of Miss Russell's visit. Poirot had therefore twenty chapters.
I left him with them.
I was obliged to go out to a case at some distance away, and it was past eight o'clock when I got back, to be greeted with a plate of hot dinner on a tray, and the announcement that Poirot and my sister had supped to-
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