black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing.
We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong.
Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears.
“Oh, m’am! Oh, m’am! I don’t know how to tell you—”
“What is it, Dorcas?” I asked impatiently. “Tell us at once.”
“It’s those
“Why, if it isn’t Mr. Poirot!” cried the Inspector. He turned to the other man. “You’ve heard me speak of Mr. Poirot? It was in 1904 he and I worked together—the Abercrombie forgery case—you remember, he was run down in Brussels. Ah, those were great days, moosier. Then, do you remember ‘Baron’ Altara?