approached and murmured something in his ear.
"Eh—what? I'll come at once. Not taken ill, is she? Excuse me, gentlemen."
He left us abruptly. Poirot leaned back and lit one of his tiny Russian cigarettes. Then, carefully and meticulously, he arranged the empty coffee-cups in a neat row, and beamed happily on the result.
The minutes passed. The Opalsens did not return.
"Curious," I remarked, at length. "I wonder when they will come back."
Poirot watched the ascending spirals of smoke, and then said thoughtfully:
"They will not come back."
"Why?"
"Because, my friend, something has happened."
"What sort of thing? How do you know?" I asked curiously.
Poirot smiled.
"A few moments ago the manager came hurriedly out of his office and ran upstairs. He was much agitated. The lift-boy is deep in talk with one of the pages. The lift-bell has rung three times, but he heeds it not. Thirdly, even the waiters are distrait; and to make a waiter
