As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face
looked weary and haggard.

"This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said.
"Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no
publicity?"

"I comprehend perfectly."

"You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go
upon."

"Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only."

John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a
cigarette as he did so.

"You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?"

"Yes. I met him."

John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding
which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and
buried it neatly.

"It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him."

"That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly.

John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this