“Your valises have been moved, Monsieur. To the compartment No. 1, the compartment of M. Bouc.”

“But where is Monsieur Bouc, then?”

“He has moved into the coach from Athens which has just been put on.”

Poirot went in search of his friend. M. Bouc waved his protestations aside.

“It is nothing. It is nothing. It is more convenient like this. You are going through to England, so it is better that you should stay in the through coach to Calais. Me, I am very well here. It is most peaceful. This coach is empty save for myself and one little Greek doctor. Ah! my friend, what a night! They say there has not been so much snow for years. Let us hope we shall not be held up. I am not too happy about it, I can tell you.”

At 9.15 punctually the train pulled out of the station, and shortly afterwards Poirot got up, said good night to his friend, and made his way along the corridor back into his own coach which was in front next to the dining-car.

On this, the second day of the journey, barriers were breaking down. Colonel Arbuthnot was standing at the door of his compartment talking to MacQueen. When MacQueen saw Poirot he broke off something he was saying. He looked very much surprised.

“Why,” he cried, “I thought you’d left us. You said you were getting off at Belgrade.”

“You misunderstood me,” said Poirot, smiling. “I remember now, the train started from Stamboul just as we were talking about it.”

“But, man, your baggage. It’s gone.”

“It has been moved into another compartment, that is all.”

“Oh! I see.”

He resumed his conversation with Arbuthnot, and Poirot passed on down the corridor.