"Certainly not the police," she declared. "I am glad."
"They have not really worried us much," said Hippolyte. "In fact, but for Monsieur le Comte's warning, I should never have guessed that stranger at the wineshop to be what he was."
The hall bell pealed and Hippolyte, in a grave and decorous manner, went to open the door.
"M. le Comte, I regret to say, is not at home."
The little man with the large moustaches beamed placidly.
"I know that," he replied. "You are Hippolyte Flavelle, are you not?"
"Yes, Monsieur, that is my name."
"And you have a wife, Marie Flavelle?"
"Yes, Monsieur, but"
"I desire to see you both," said the stranger, and he stepped nimbly past Hippolyte into the hall.
"Your wife is doubtless in the kitchen," he said. "I will go there."
Before Hippolyte could recover his breath, the other had selected the right door at the back of the hall and passed along the passage and into the kitchen, where Marie paused open-mouthed to stare at him.
"Voilà" said the stranger, and sank into a wooden arm-chair; "I am Hercule Poirot."
"Yes, Monsieur?"
"You do not know the name?"
"I have never heard it," said Hippolyte.
"Permit me to say that you have been badly educated. It is the name of one of the great ones of this world."
He sighed and folded his hands across his chest.
