"
We had reached Leastways Cottage, and Poirot ushered me upstairs
to his own room. He offered me one of the tiny Russian
cigarettes he himself occasionally smoked. I was amused to
notice that he stowed away the used matches most carefully in a
little china pot. My momentary annoyance vanished.
Poirot had placed our two chairs in front of the open window
which commanded a view of the village street. The fresh air blew
in warm and pleasant. It was going to be a hot day.
Suddenly my attention was arrested by a weedy looking young man
rushing down the street at a great pace. It was the expression
on his face that was extraordinary--a curious mingling of terror
and agitation.
"Look, Poirot!" I said.
He leant forward.
"Tiens!" he said. "It is Mr. Mace, from the chemist's shop. He
is coming here."
The young man came to a halt before Leastways Cottage, and, after
hesitating a moment, pounded vigorously at the door.
"A little minute," cried Poirot from the window. "I come."
Motioning to me to follow him, he ran swiftly down the stairs and
opened the door.
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