about them. I should never have suspected them of being official personages.
I was still staring, when I was startled and recalled by the verdict being given:
“Wilful Murder against some person or persons unknown.”
CHAPTER VII.
POIROT PAYS HIS DEBTS
As we came out of the Stylites Arms, Poirot drew me aside by a gentle pressure of the arm. I understood his object. He was waiting for the Scotland Yard men.
In a few moments, they emerged, and Poirot at once stepped forward, and accosted the shorter of the two.
“Yes, I’ve got the most beastly headache.”
“Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?” said Poirot solicitously. “It will revive you. It is unparalleled for the mal de tete.” He jumped up and took her cup.
“No sugar,” said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the sugar-tongs.
“No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, eh?”