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.
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