The Mysterious Affair at Styles | Page 7

away the last tea-spoon when a knock came at the door.
The countenances of Cynthia and Nibs were suddenly petrified into a
stern and forbidding expression.
"Come in," said Cynthia, in a sharp professional tone.
A young and rather scared looking nurse appeared with a bottle which
she proffered to Nibs, who waved her towards Cynthia with the
somewhat enigmatical remark:
"I'm not really here to-day."
Cynthia took the bottle and examined it with the severity of a judge.

"This should have been sent up this morning."
"Sister is very sorry. She forgot."
"Sister should read the rules outside the door."
I gathered from the little nurse's expression that there was not the least
likelihood of her having the hardihood to retail this message to the
dreaded "Sister".
"So now it can't be done until to-morrow," finished Cynthia.
"Don't you think you could possibly let us have it to-night?"
"Well," said Cynthia graciously, "we are very busy, but if we have time
it shall be done."
The little nurse withdrew, and Cynthia promptly took a jar from the
shelf, refilled the bottle, and placed it on the table outside the door.
I laughed.
"Discipline must be maintained?"
"Exactly. Come out on our little balcony. You can see all the outside
wards there."
I followed Cynthia and her friend and they pointed out the different
wards to me. Lawrence remained behind, but after a few moments
Cynthia called to him over her shoulder to come and join us. Then she
looked at her watch.
"Nothing more to do, Nibs?"
"No."
"All right. Then we can lock up and go."
I had seen Lawrence in quite a different light that afternoon. Compared

to John, he was an astoundingly difficult person to get to know. He was
the opposite of his brother in almost every respect, being unusually shy
and reserved. Yet he had a certain charm of manner, and I fancied that,
if one really knew him well, one could have a deep affection for him. I
had always fancied that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained,
and that she on her side was inclined to be shy of him. But they were
both gay enough this afternoon, and chatted together like a couple of
children.
As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some
stamps, so accordingly we pulled up at the post office.
As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just entering.
I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation,
he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly.
"Mon ami Hastings!" he cried. "It is indeed mon ami Hastings!"
"Poirot!" I exclaimed.
I turned to the pony-trap.
"This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is my old
friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years."
"Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily. "But I had no idea
he was a friend of yours."
"Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously. "I know Mademoiselle Cynthia. It
is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that I am here." Then, as I
looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my friend, she had kindly extended
hospitality to seven of my countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from
their native land. We Belgians will always remember her with
gratitude."
Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man. He was hardly more
than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His
head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always perched it a little

on one side. His moustache was very stiff and military. The neatness of
his attire was almost incredible. I believe a speck of dust would have
caused him more pain than a bullet wound. Yet this quaint dandyfied
little man who, I was sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in his
time one of the most celebrated members of the Belgian police. As a
detective, his flair had been extraordinary, and he had achieved
triumphs by unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day.
He pointed out to me the little house inhabited by him and his fellow
Belgians, and I promised to go and see him at an early date. Then he
raised his hat with a flourish to Cynthia, and we drove away.
"He's a dear little man," said Cynthia. "I'd no idea you knew him."
"You've been entertaining a celebrity unawares," I replied.
And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various exploits
and triumphs of Hercule Poirot.
We arrived back in a very cheerful mood. As we entered the hall, Mrs.
Inglethorp came out of her boudoir. She looked flushed and upset.
"Oh, it's you," she said.
"Is there anything the matter, Aunt Emily?" asked Cynthia.
"Certainly not,"