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68 unusual type of woman—quite unnatural, in fact. Mille tonnerres! what is that?”

He dragged me back—just in time. A tree had crashed down on to the side walk, just missing us. Poirot stared at it, pale and upset.

“It was a near thing that! But clumsy, all the same—for I had no suspicion—at least hardly any suspicion. Yes, but for my quick eyes, the eyes of a cat, Hercule Poirot might now be crushed out of existence—a terrible calamity for the world. And you, too, mon ami—though that would not be such a national catastrophe.”

“Thank you,” I said coldly. “And what are we going to do now?”

“Do?” cried Poirot. “We are going to think. Yes, here and now, we are going to exercise our little gray cells. This M. Halliday now, was he really in Paris? Yes, for Professor Bourgoneau, who knows him, saw and spoke to him.”

“What on earth are you driving at?” I cried.

“That was Friday morning. He was last seen at eleven Friday night—but was he seen then?”

“The porter?”

“A night porter—who had not previously seen Halliday. A man comes in, sufficiently like Halliday—we may trust Number Four for that—asks for letters, goes upstairs, packs a