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 employ your talents—your very considerable talents—in the detection of legitimate crime—return to your former avocations, and solve the problems of London society ladies.”

“A peaceful programme,” said Poirot. “And supposing I do not agree?”

The man made an eloquent gesture.

“We should regret it, of course, exceedingly,” he said. “So would all the friends and admirers of the great M. Hercule Poirot. But regrets, however poignant, do not bring a man to life again.”

“Put very delicately,” said Poirot, nodding his head. “And supposing I—accept?”

“In that case I am empowered to offer you—compensation.”

He drew out a pocket-book, and threw ten notes on the table. They were for ten thousand francs each.

“That is merely as a guarantee of our good faith,” he said. “Ten times that amount will be paid you.”

“Good God,” I cried, springing up, “you dare to think!”

“Sit down, Hastings,” said Poirot autocratically. “Subdue your so beautiful and honest nature and sit down. To you, monsieur, I will say this. What is to prevent me ringing up