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taught never to waste notepaper. Finally, with a sigh of satisfaction, she signed her name and put it into an envelope. She wrote a name upon the envelope. Then she took a fresh sheet of paper. This time she made a rough draft and after having reread it and made certain alterations and erasures, she wrote out a fair copy. She read the whole thing through very carefully, then satisfied that she had expressed her meaning she enclosed it in an envelope and addressed it to William Purvis, Esq., Messrs Purvis, Purvis, Charlesworth and Purvis, Solicitors, Harchester.
    She took up the first envelope again, which was addressed to M. Hercule Poirot, and opened the telephone directory. Having found the address she added it.
    A tap sounded at the door.
    Miss Arundell hastily thrust the letter she had just finished addressing—the letter to Hercule Poirot—inside the flap of her writing case.
    She had no intention of rousing Minnie’s curiosity. Minnie was a great deal too inquisitive.
    She called “Come in” and lay back on her pillows with a sigh of relief.
    She had taken steps to deal with the situation.

Five
H ERCULE P OIROT R ECEIVES A L ETTER
    T he events which I have just narrated were not, of course, known to me until a long time afterwards. But by questioning various members of the family in detail, I have, I think, set them down accurately enough.
    Poirot and I were only drawn into the affair when we received Miss Arundell’s letter.
    I remember the day well. It was a hot, airless morning towards the end of June.
    Poirot had a particular routine when opening his morning correspondence. He picked up each letter, scrutinized it carefully and neatly slit the envelope open with his paper cutter. Its contents were perused and then placed in one of four piles beyond the chocolate pot. (Poirot always drank chocolate for breakfast—a revolting habit.) All this with a machinelike regularity!
    So much was this the case that the least interruption of the rhythm attracted one’s attention.
    I was sitting by the window, looking out at the passing traffic. I had recently returned from Argentina and there was something particularly exciting to me in being once more in the roar of London.
    Turning my head, I said with a smile:
    â€œPoirot, I—the humble Watson—am going to hazard a deduction.”
    â€œEnchanted, my friend. What is it?”
    I struck an attitude and said pompously:
    â€œYou have received this morning one letter of particular interest!”
    â€œYou are indeed the Sherlock Holmes! Yes, you are perfectly right.”
    I laughed.
    â€œYou see, I know your methods, Poirot. If you read a letter through twice it must mean that it is of special interest.”
    â€œYou shall judge for yourself, Hastings.”
    With a smile my friend tendered me the letter in question.
    I took it with no little interest, but immediately made a slight grimace. It was written in one of those old-fashioned spidery handwritings, and it was, moreover, crossed on two pages.
    â€œMust I read this, Poirot?” I complained.
    â€œAh, no, there is no compulsion. Assuredly not.”
    â€œCan’t you tell me what it says?”
    â€œI would prefer you to form your own judgement. But do not trouble if it bores you.”
    â€œNo, no, I want to know what it’s all about,” I protested.
    My friend remarked drily:
    â€œYou can hardly do that. In effect, the letter says nothing at all.”
    Taking this as an exaggeration I plunged without more ado into the letter.
    M. Hercule Poirot.
    Dear Sir,
    After much doubt and indecision, I am writing (the last word was crossed out and the letter went on) I am emboldened to write to you in the hope that you may be able to assist me in a matter of a strictly private nature. (The words strictly private were underlined three times.) I may say that your name is not unknown to me. It was mentioned to me by a Miss Fox of Exeter, and although Miss Fox