an ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated the despatch-case on the floor.

“Eh voila une table!” cried Poirot. “Ah, my friend, one may live in a big house and yet have no comfort.”

After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search.

A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the writing-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took out the key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. I saw nothing peculiar, however.

---