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 at Poirot’s moustaches. They came off in her hand, and then, indeed, the truth was plain. For this man’s upper lip was disfigured by a small scar which completely altered the expression of the face.

“Not Hercule Poirot,” muttered Number Four. “But who can he be then?”

“I know,” I cried suddenly, and then stopped dead, afraid I had ruined everything.

But the man I will still refer to as Poirot had turned to me encouragingly.

“Say it if you will. It makes no matter now. The trick has succeeded.”

“This is Achille Poirot,” I said slowly. “Hercule Poirot’s twin brother.”

“Impossible,” said Ryland sharply, but he was shaken.

“Hercule’s plan has succeeded to a marvel,” said Achille placidly.

Number Four leapt forward, his voice harsh and menacing.

“Succeeded, has it?” he snarled. “Do you realise that before many minutes have passed you will be dead—dead?”

“Yes,” said Achille Poirot gravely. “I realise that. It is you who do not realise that a man may be willing to purchase success by his life. There were men who laid down their life