As to what it had all been about, Lieutenant Dubosc was still in the dark, but to him had been delegated the duty of seeing off M. Poirot by the Taurus Express, and he was carrying it out with all the zeal and ardour befitting a young officer with a promising career ahead of him.

“To-day is Sunday,” said Lieutenant Dubosc. “Tomorrow, Monday evening, you will be in Stamboul.”

It was not the first time he had made this observation. Conversations on the platform, before the departure of a train, are apt to be somewhat repetitive in character.

“That is so,” agreed M. Poirot.

“And you intend to remain there a few days, I think?”

“Mais oui. Stamboul, it is a city I have never visited. It would be a pity to pass through-comme ca.” He snapped his fingers descriptively. “Nothing presses-I shall remain there as a tourist for a few days.”

“La Sainte Sophie, it is very fine,” said Lieutenant Dubosc, who had never seen it.

A cold wind came whistling down the platform. Both men shivered. Lieutenant Dubosc managed to cast a surreptitious glance at his watch. Five minutes to five-only five minutes more!

Fancying that the other man had noticed his glance, he hastened once more into speech.

“There are few people travelling this time of year,” he said, glancing up at the windows of the sleeping-car above them.

“That is so,” agreed M. Poirot.

“Let us hope you will not be snowed up in the Taurus!”

“That happens?”

“It has occurred, yes. Not this year, as yet.”

“Let us hope, then,” said M. Poirot. “The weather reports from Europe, they are bad.