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 bolted that evening. If it was open in the morning, his master must have opened it himself. At last Poirot dismissed him.

“That will do, Ah Ling.” Just as the Chinaman had got to the door, Poirot recalled him. “And you know nothing, you say, of the Yellow Jasmine?”

“No, what should I know?”

“Nor yet of the sign that was written underneath it?”

Poirot leant forward as he spoke, and quickly traced something on the dust of a little table. I was near enough to see it before he rubbed it out. A down stroke, a line at right angles, and then a second line down which completed a big 4. The effect on the Chinaman was electrical. For one moment his face was a mask of terror. Then, as suddenly, it was impassive again, and repeating his grave disclaimer, he withdrew.

Japp departed in search of young Paynter, and Poirot and I were left alone together.

“The Big Four, Hastings,” cried Poirot. “Once again, the Big Four. Paynter was a great traveller. In his book there was doubtless some vital information concerning the doings of Number One, Li Chang Yen, the head and brains of the Big Four.”

“But who—how”