And his wooden face creased into a smile and then returned to its former unexpressiveness.

"Colonel Race," went on Mr. Shaitana. Poirot had not previously met Colonel Race, but he knew something about him. A dark, handsome, deeply bronzed man of fifty, he was usually to be found in some outpost of Empire – especially if there were trouble brewing. Secret Service is a melodramatic term, but it described pretty accurately to the lay mind the nature and scope of Colonel Race's activities.

Poirot had by now taken in and appreciated the particular essence of his host's humorous intentions.

"Our other guests are late," said Mr. Shaitana. "My fault, perhaps. I believe I told them eight-fifteen."

But at that moment the door opened and the butler announced, "Doctor Roberts."

The man who came in did so with a kind of parody of a brisk bedside manner. He was a cheerful, highly colored individual of middle age. Small twinkling eyes, a touch of baldness, a tendency of embonpoint and a general air of a well-scrubbed and disinfected medical practitioner. His manner was cheerful and confident. You felt that his diagnosis would be correct and his treatments agreeable and practical – "a little champagne in convalescence perhaps." A man of the world!

"Not late, I hope?" said Doctor Roberts genially.

He shook hands with his host and was introduced to the others. He seemed particularly gratified at meeting Battle. "Why, you're one of the big noises at Scotland Yard, aren't you? This is interesting! Too bad to make you talk shop but I warn you I shall have a try at it. Always been interested in crime. Bad thing for a doctor, perhaps. Mustn't say so to my nervous patients – ha, ha!"

Again the door opened.

"Mrs. Lorrimer."

Mrs. Lorrimer was a well-dressed woman of sixty. She had lovely cut features, beautifully arranged gray hair, and a clear, incisive voice.

"I hope I'm not late," she said, advancing to her host. She turned from him to greet Doctor Roberts with whom she was acquainted.