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 “Your brother,” I cried, astonished. “I never knew you had a brother?”

“You surprise me, Hastings. Do you not know that all celebrated detectives have brothers who would be even more celebrated than they are were it not for constitutional indolence?”

Poirot employs a peculiar manner sometimes which makes it well-nigh impossible to know whether he is jesting or in earnest. That manner was very evident at the moment.

“What is your brother’s name?” I asked, trying to adjust myself to this new idea.

“Achille Poirot,” replied Poirot gravely. “He lives near Spa in Belgium.”

“What does he do?” I asked with some curiosity, putting aside a half-formed wonder as to the character and disposition of the late Madame Poirot, and her classical taste in Christian names.

“He does nothing. He is, as I tell, of a singularly indolent disposition. But his abilities are hardly less than my own—which is saying a great deal.”

“Is he like you to look at?”

“Not unlike. But not nearly so handsome. And he wears no moustaches.”

“Is he older than you, or younger?”