Page:The Big Four (Christie).pdf/18

8 “But how can any one be in there? There's no door except into this room.”

“Your memory is excellent, Hastings. Now for the deductions.”

“The window! But it’s a burglar, then? He must have had a stiff climb of it—I should say it was almost impossible.”

I had risen to my feet and was striding in the direction of the door when the sound of a fumbling at the handle from the other side arrested me.

The door swung slowly open. Framed in the doorway stood a man. He was coated from head to foot with dust and mud; his face was thin and emaciated. He stared at us for a moment, and then swayed and fell. Poirot hurried to his side, then he looked up and spoke to me.

“Brandy—quickly.”

I dashed some brandy into a glass and brought it. Poirot managed to administer a little, and together we raised him and carried him to the couch. In a few minutes he opened his eyes and looked round him with an almost vacant stare.

“What is it you want, monsieur?” said Poirot.

The man opened his lips and spoke in a queer mechanical voice.

“M. Hercule Poirot, 14 Farraway Street.”

“Yes, yes; I am he.”