Mary Debenham pushed back her chair and left with a slight bow to the other two. Colonel Arbuthnot got up and followed her. Gathering up her despised money the American woman followed suit, followed by the other one like a sheep. The Hungarians had already departed. The restaurant car was empty save for Poirot and Ratchett and MacQueen.

Ratchett spoke to his companion, who got up and left the car. Then he rose himself, but instead of following MacQueen he dropped unexpectedly into the seat opposite Poirot.

“Can you oblige me with a light?” he said. His voice was soft-faintly nasal. “My name is Ratchett.”

Poirot bowed slightly. He slipped his hand into his pocket and produced a matchbox which he handed to the other man, who took it but did not strike a light.

“I think,” he went on, “that I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Hercule Poirot. Is that so?”

Poirot bowed again. “You have been correctly informed, Monsieur.”

The detective was conscious of those strange shrewd eyes summing him up before the other spoke again.

“In my country,” he said, “we come to the point quickly. Mr. Poirot, I want you to take on a job for me.”

Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows went up a trifle.

“Myclientele, Monsieur, is limited nowadays. I undertake very few cases.”

“Why, naturally, I understand that. But this, Mr. Poirot, means big money.” He repeated again in his soft, persuasive voice, “Big money.”

Hercule Poirot was silent a minute or two. Then he said: “What is it you wish me to do for you, Monsieur-er-Ratchett?”

“Mr. Poirot, I am a rich man-a very rich man. Men in that position have enemies. I have an enemy.”

“Only one enemy?”

“Just what do you mean by that question?” asked Ratchett sharply.

“Monsieur, in my experience when a man is in a position to have, as you say, enemies, then it does not usually resolve itself into one enemy only.”