“Toyou?”

MacQueen’s astonished tone told Poirot quite certainly that the young man had not known of it.

The detective nodded. “Yes. He was alarmed. Tell me, how did he act when he received the first letter?”

MacQueen hesitated.

“It’s difficult to say. He-he-passed it off with a laugh in that quiet way of his. But somehow-” he gave a slight shiver-“I felt that there was a good deal going on underneath the quietness.”

Poirot nodded. Then he asked an unexpected question.

“Mr. MacQueen, will you tell me, quite honestly, exactly how you regarded your employer? Did you like him?”

Hector MacQueen took a moment or two before replying.

“No,” he said at last. “I did not.”

“Why.”

“I can’t exactly say. He was always quite pleasant in his manner.” He paused, then said: “I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. Poirot. I disliked and distrusted him. He was, I am sure, a cruel and dangerous man. I must admit, though, that I have no reasons to advance for my opinion.”

“Thank you, Mr. MacQueen. One further question: when did you last see Mr. Ratchett alive?”

“Last evening about-” he thought for a minute-“ten o’clock, I should say. I went into his compartment to take down some memoranda from him.”

“On what subject?”

“Some tiles and antique pottery that he bought inPersia. What had been delivered was not what he had purchased. There has been a long, vexatious correspondence on the subject.”

“And that was the last time Mr. Ratchett was seen alive?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Do you know when Mr. Ratchett received the last threatening letter?”

“On the morning of the day we left Constantinople.”

“There is one more question I must ask you, Mr. MacQueen. Were you on good terms with your employer?”

The young man’s eyes twinkled suddenly.