“You see, Hastings, the effect of Hercule Poirot—alive and in the flesh?"
“You think”
I had not time to continue. I felt Poirot’s hand on my knee, as he whispered excitedly:
“Look, Hastings, look. His trick with the bread! Number Four!”
Sure enough, the man at the next table to ours, his face unusually pale, was dabbing a small piece of bread mechanically about the table.
I studied him carefully. His face, clean-shaven and puffily fat, was of a pasty, unhealthy sallowness, with heavy pouches under the eyes and deep lines running from his nose to the corners of his mouth. His age might have been anything from thirty-five to forty-five. In no particular did he resemble any one of the characters which Number Four had previously assumed. Indeed, had it not been for his little trick with the bread, of which he was evidently quite unaware, I would have sworn readily enough that the man sitting there was some one whom I had never seen before.
“He has recognised you,” I murmured. “You should not have come down.”
“My excellent Hastings, I have feigned death for three months for this one purpose.”
