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tongs, held the whole thing over the flame of the spirit lamp.
    â€œIt is a very makeshift affair, this,” he said over his shoulder. “Let us hope that it will answer its purpose.”
    The doctor watched the proceedings attentively. The metal began to glow. Suddenly he saw faint indications of letters. Words formed themselves slowly—words of fire.
    It was a very tiny scrap. Only three words and a part of another showed.
    â€œâ€”member little Daisy Armstrong.”
    â€œAh!” Poirot gave a sharp exclamation.
    â€œIt tells you something?” asked the doctor.
    Poirot’s eyes were shining. He laid down the tongs carefully.
    â€œYes,” he said. “I know the dead man’s real name. I know why he had to leave America.”
    â€œWhat was his name?”
    â€œCassetti.”
    â€œCassetti.” Constantine knitted his brows. “It brings back to me something. Some years ago. I cannot remember…It was a case in America, was it not?”
    â€œYes,” said Poirot. “A case in America.”
    Further than that Poirot was not disposed to be communicative. He looked round him as he went on:
    â€œWe will go into all that presently. Let us first make sure that we have seen all there is to be seen here.”
    Quickly and deftly he went once more through the pockets of the dead man’s clothes but found nothing there of interest. He tried the communicating door which led through to the next compartment, but it was bolted on the other side.
    â€œThere is one thing that I do not understand,” said Dr. Constantine. “If the murderer did not escape through the window, and if this communicating door was bolted on the other side, and if the door into the corridor was not only locked on the inside but chained, how then did the murderer leave the compartment?”
    â€œThat is what the audience says when a person bound hand and foot is shut into a cabinet—and disappears.”
    â€œYou mean—”
    â€œI mean,” explained Poirot, “that if the murderer intended us to believe that he had escaped by way of the window he would naturally make it appear that the other two exits were impossible. Like the ‘disappearing person’ in the cabinet—it is a trick. It is our business to find out how the trick is done.”
    He locked the communicating door on their side.
    â€œIn case,” he said, “the excellent Mrs. Hubbard should take it into her head to acquire first-hand details of the crime to write to her daughter.”
    He looked round once more.
    â€œThere is nothing more to do here, I think. Let us rejoin M. Bouc.”

Eight
T HE A RMSTRONG K IDNAPPING C ASE
    T hey found M. Bouc finishing an omelet.
    â€œI thought it best to have lunch served immediately in the restaurant car,” he said. “Afterwards it will be cleared and M. Poirot can conduct his examination of the passengers there. In the meantime I have ordered them to bring us three some food here.”
    â€œAn excellent idea,” said Poirot.
    Neither of the other two men was hungry, and the meal was soon eaten, but not till they were sipping their coffee did M. Bouc mention the subject that was occupying all their minds.
    â€œEh bien?” he asked.
    â€œ Eh bien, I have discovered the identity of the victim. I know why it was imperative he should leave America.”
    â€œWho was he?”
    â€œDo you remember reading of the Armstrong baby? This is the man who murdered little Daisy Armstrong—Cassetti.”
    â€œI recall it now. A shocking affair—though I cannot remember the details.”
    â€œColonel Armstrong was an Englishman—a V.C. He was half American, as his mother was a daughter of W. K. Van der Halt, the Wall Street millionaire. He married the daughter of Linda Arden, the most famous tragic American actress of her day. They lived in America and had one child—a girl—whom they idolized. When she was