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 tooth was prominent on one side of my mouth.

“Your name,” said Poirot, “is Arthur Neville. God guard you, my friend—for I fear that you go into perilous places.”

It was with a beating heart that I presented myself at the Savoy, at an hour named by Mr. Ryland, and asked to see the great man.

After being kept waiting a minute or two, I was shown upstairs to his suite.

Ryland was sitting at a table. Spread out in front of him was a letter which I could see out of the tail of my eye was in the Home Secretary’s handwriting. It was my first sight of the American millionaire, and, in spite of myself, I was impressed. He was tall and lean, with a jutting out chin and slightly hooked nose. His eyes glittered cold and gray behind penthouse brows. He had thick grizzled hair, and a long black cigar (without which, I learned later, he was never seen) protruded rakishly from the corner of his mouth.

“Siddown,” he grunted.

I sat. He tapped the letter in front of him.

“According to this piece here, you're the goods all right, and I don’t need to look further. Say, are you well up in the social matters?”