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Rh “A gentleman has arrived. He is in your rooms. He seems very ill. A nurse came with him, but she has left.”

“That is all right,” said Poirot, “he is a friend of mine.”

We went upstairs together. Sitting in a chair by the window was a haggard young fellow who looked in the last stages of exhaustion. Poirot went over to him.

“Are you John Halliday?” The man nodded. “Show me your left arm. John Halliday has a mole just below the left elbow.”

The man stretched out his arm. The mole was there. Poirot bowed to the countess. She turned and left the room.

A glass of brandy revived Halliday somewhat.

“My God!” he muttered. “I have been through hell—hell Those fiends are devils incarnate. My wife, where is she ? What does she think? They told me that she would believe —would believe”

“She does not,” said Poirot firmly. “Her faith in you has never wavered. She is waiting for you—she and the child.”

“Thank God for that. I can hardly believe that I am free once more.”

“Now that you are a little recovered, monsieur,