"My dear Monsieur Poirot!"

It was a soft purring voice – a voice used deliberately as an instrument – nothing impulsive or unpremeditated about it. Hercule Poirot swung round.

He bowed. He shook hands ceremoniously.

There was something in his eye that was unusual. One would have said that this chance encounter awakened in him an emotion that he seldom had occasion to feel.

"My dear Mr. Shaitana," he said.

They both paused. They were like duelists en garde.

Around them a well-dressed languid London crowd eddied mildly. Voices drawled or murmured.

"Darling – exquisite!"

"Simply divine, aren't they, my dear?"

It was the Exhibition of Snuffboxes at Wessex House. Admission one guinea in aid of the London hospitals.

"My dear man," said Mr. Shaitana, "how nice to see you! Not hanging or guillotining much just at present? Slack season in the criminal world? Or is there to be a robbery here this afternoon? That would be too delicious."

"Alas, monsieur," said Poirot, "I am here in a purely private capacity."

Mr. Shaitana was diverted for a moment by a Lovely Young Thing with tight poodle curls up one side of her head and three cornucopias in black straw on the other. He said, "My dear – why didn't you come to my party? It really was a marvelous party! Quite a lot of people actually spoke to me! One woman even said 'How do you do' and 'Good-by' and 'Thank you so much' – but of course she came from a Garden City, poor dear!"

While the Lovely Young Thing made a suitable reply, Poirot allowed himself a good study of the hirsute adornment on Mr. Shaitana's upper lip.

A fine mustache – a very fine mustache – the only mustache in London, perhaps, that could compete with that of Monsieur Hercule Poirot.