“It is nothing, Mademoiselle. It is something that has caught fire under the dining-car. Nothing serious. It is put out. They are now repairing the damage. There is no danger, I assure you.”

She made a little abrupt gesture, as though she were waving the idea of danger aside as something completely unimportant.

“Yes, yes, I understand that. But thetime!”

“The time?”

“Yes, this will delay us.”

“It is possible-yes,” agreed Poirot.

“But we can’t afford delay! This train is due in at 6.55, and one has to cross the Bosphorus and catch the Simplon Orient Express on the other side at nine o’clock. If there is an hour or two of delay we shall miss the connection.”

“It is possible, yes,” he admitted.

He looked at her curiously. The hand that held the window bar was not quite steady; her lips, too, were trembling.

“Does it matter to you very much, Mademoiselle?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes, it does. I-Imust catch that train.”

She turned away from him and went down the corridor to join Colonel Arbuthnot.

Her anxiety, however, was needless. Ten minutes later the train started again. It arrived at Hayda-passar only five minutes late, having made up time on the journey.

The Bosphorus was rough and M. Poirot did not enjoy the crossing. He was separated from his travelling companions on the boat and did not see them again.

On arrival at the Galata Bridge he drove straight to the Tokatlian Hotel.

2. The Tokatlian Hotel

At the Tokatlian, Hercule Poirot asked for a room with bath. Then he stepped over to the concierge’s desk and inquired for letters.

There were three waiting for him and a telegram. His eyebrows rose a little at the sight of the telegram. It was unexpected.

He opened it in his usual neat, unhurried fashion. The printed words stood out clearly.