It was mid-January--a typical English winter day in London, damp and
dirty. Poirot and I were sitting in two chairs well drawn up to the
fire. I was aware of my friend looking at me with a quizzical smile,
the meaning of which I could not fathom.
"A penny for your thoughts," I said lightly.
"I was thinking, my friend, that at midsummer, when you first arrived,
you told me that you proposed to be in this country for a couple of
months only."
"Did I say that?" I asked, rather awkwardly. "I don't remember."
Poirot's smile broadened.
"You did, _mon ami_. Since then, you have changed your plan, is it
not so?"
"Er--yes, I have."
"And why is that?"
"Dash it all, Poirot, you don't think I'm going to leave you all alone
when you're up against a thing like the 'Big Four,' do you?"
Poirot nodded gently.
"Just as I thought. You are a staunch friend, Hastings. It is to serve
me that you remain on here. And your wife--little Cinderella as you
call her, what does she say?"
"I haven't gone into details, of course, but she understands. She'd be
the last one to wish me to turn my back on a pal."
"Yes, yes, she, too, is a loyal friend. But it is going to be a long
business, perhaps."