“Attention, Hastings. I have my suspicions. Let me enter first.”
He did so, and, to my slight amusement, took the precaution to press on the electric switch with an old galosh. Then he went round the room like a strange cat, cautiously, delicately, on the alert for danger. I watched him for some time, remaining obediently where I had been put by the wall.
“It’s all right, Poirot,” I said impatiently.
“It seems so, mon ami, it seems so. But let us make sure.”
“Rot,” I said. “I shall light the fire, anyway, and have a pipe. I’ve caught you out for once. You had the matches last and you didn’t put them back in the holder as usual—the very thing you're always cursing me for doing.”
I stretched out my hand. I heard Poirot’s warning cry—saw him leaping towards me—my hand touched the match-box.
Then—a flash of blue flame—an ear-rending crash—and darkness———
••••••
I came to myself to find the familiar face of our old friend Dr. Ridgeway bending over me. An expression of relief passed over his features.
“Keep still,” he said soothingly. “You’re all right. There’s been an accident, you know.”
