vens, Poirot!" I cried. "What is the matter? Are you taken
ill?"

"No, no," he gasped. "It is--it is--that I have an idea!"

"Oh!" I exclaimed, much relieved. "One of your 'little ideas'?"

"Ah, ma foi, no!" replied Poirot frankly. "This time it is an idea
gigantic! Stupendous! And you--_you_, my friend, have given it to me!"

Suddenly clasping me in his arms, he kissed me warmly on both cheeks,
and before I had recovered from my surprise ran headlong from the room.

Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.

"What is the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out:
'A garage! For the love of Heaven, direct me to a garage, madame!' And,
before I could answer, he had dashed out into the street."

I hurried to the window. True enough, there he was, tearing down the
street, hatless, and gesticulating as he went. I turned to Mary with a
gesture of despair.

"He'll be stopped by a policeman in another minute. There he goes, round
the corner!"

Our eyes met, and we stared helplessly at one another.

"What can be the matter?"

I shook my head.

"I don't know. He was building card houses, when suddenly he said he had
an idea, and rushed off as you saw."

"Well," said Mary, "I expect he will be back before dinner."

But night fell, and Poirot had not returned.

CHAPTER XII. THE LAST LINK

POIROT'S abrupt departure had intrigued us all greatly. Sunday morning
wore away, and still he did not reappear. But about three o'clock a
ferocious and prolonged hooting outside drove us to the window, to see
Poirot alighting from a car, accompanied by Japp and Summerhaye. The
little man was transformed. He radiated an absurd complacency. He bowed
with exaggerated respect to Mary Cavendish.

"Madame, I have your permission to hold a little reunion in the salon?
It is necessary for every one to attend."

Mary smiled sadly.

"You know, Monsieur Poirot, that you have carte blanche in every way."

"You are too amiable, madame."

Still beaming, Poirot marshalled us all into the drawing-room, bringing
forward chairs as he did so.

"Miss Howard--here. Mademoiselle Cynthia. Monsieur Lawrence. The good
Dorcas. And Annie. Bien! We must delay our proceedings a few minutes
until Mr. Inglethorp arrives. I have sent him a note."

Miss Howard rose immediately from her seat.

"If that man comes into the house, I leave it!"

"No, no!" Poirot went up to her and pleaded in a low voice.

Finally Miss Howard consen