“Enfin!” murmured M. Hercule Poirot.

“Brrrrrrrr,” said Lieutenant Dubosc, realising to the full how cold he was.

“Voila, Monsieur!” The conductor displayed to Poirot with a dramatic gesture the beauty of his sleeping compartment and the neat arrangement of his luggage. “The little valise of Monsieur, I have put it here.”

His outstretched hand was suggestive. Hercule Poirot placed in it a folded note.

“Merci, Monsieur.” The conductor became brisk and business-like. “I have the tickets of Monsieur. I will also take the passport, please. Monsieur breaks his journey in Stamboul, I understand?”

M. Poirot assented. “There are not many people travelling, I imagine?” he said.

“No, Monsieur. I have only two other passengers-both English. A Colonel fromIndia and a young English lady fromBaghdad. Monsieur requires anything?”

Monsieur demanded a small bottle of Perrier.

Five o’clock in the morning is an awkward time to board a train. There were still two hours before dawn. Conscious of an inadequate night’s sleep, and of a delicate mission successfully accomplished, M. Poirot curled up in a corner and fell asleep.

When he awoke it was half-past nine he sallied forth to the restaurant car in search of hot coffee.

There was only one occupant at the moment, obviously the young English lady referred to by the conductor. She was tall, slim and dark-perhaps twenty-eight years of age. There was a kind of cool efficiency in the way she was eating her breakfast and in the way she called to the attendant to bring her more coffee which bespoke a knowledge of the world and of travelling. She wore a dark-coloured travelling dress of some thin material eminently suitable for the heated atmosphere of the train.