one could have a deep affection for him. I had always fancied
that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that she
on her side was inclined to be shy of him. But they were both
gay enough this afternoon, and chatted together like a couple of
children.

As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some
stamps, so accordingly we pulled up at the post office.

As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just
entering. I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a
loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly.

"Mon ami Hastings!" he cried. "It is indeed mon ami Hastings!"

"Poirot!" I exclaimed.

I turned to the pony-trap.

"This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is
my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years."

"Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily. "But I had no
idea he was a friend of yours."

"Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously. "I know Mademoiselle
Cynthia. It is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that
I am here." Then, as I looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my
friend, she had kindly extended hospitality to seven of my
countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their native land. We