Belgians will always remember her with gratitude."

Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man. He was hardly
more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great
dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always
perched it a little on one side. His moustache was very stiff
and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible.
I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a
bullet wound. Yet this quaint dandyfied little man who, I was
sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in his time one of the
most celebrated members of the Belgian police. As a detective,
his flair had been extraordinary, and he had achieved triumphs by
unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day.

He pointed out to me the little house inhabited by him and his
fellow Belgians, and I promised to go and see him at an early
date. Then he raised his hat with a flourish to Cynthia, and we
drove away.

"He's a dear little man," said Cynthia. "I'd no idea you knew
him."

"You've been entertaining a celebrity unawares," I replied.

And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various
exploits and triumphs of Hercule Poirot.

We arrived back in a very cheerful mood. As we entered the hall,
Mrs. Inglethorp came out of her boudoir. She looked flushed and
upset.