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door and stood with my back against it.
    â€œIt seems the obvious course,” murmured Poirot, as though debating with himself.
    â€œBut you distrust the obvious, eh?” said our visitor, smiling.
    â€œGo on, Poirot,” I urged.
    â€œIt will be your responsibility, mon ami .”
    As he lifted the receiver, the man made a sudden, catlike jump at me. I was ready for him. In another minute we were locked together, staggering round the room. Suddenly I felt him slip and falter. I pressed my advantage. He went down before me. And then, in the very flush of victory, an extraordinary thing happened. I felt myself flying forwards. Head first, I crashed into the wall in a complicated heap. I was up in a minute, but the door was already closing behind my late adversary. I rushed to it and shook it, it was locked on the outside. I seized the telephone from Poirot.
    â€œIs that the bureau? Stop a man who is coming out. A tall man, with a buttoned-up overcoat and a soft hat. He is wanted by the police.”
    Very few minutes elapsed before we heard a noise in the corridor outside. The key was turned and the door flung open. The manager himself stood in the doorway.
    â€œThe man—you have got him?” I cried.
    â€œNo, monsieur. No one has descended.”
    â€œYou must have passed him.”
    â€œWe have passed no one, monsieur. It is incredible that he can have escaped.”
    â€œYou have passed someone, I think,” said Poirot, in his gentle voice. “One of the hotel staff, perhaps?”
    â€œOnly a waiter carrying a tray, monsieur.”
    â€œAh!” said Poirot, in a tone that spoke infinities.
    â€œSo that was why he wore his overcoat buttoned up to his chin,” mused Poirot, when we had finally got rid of the excited hotel officials.
    â€œI’m awfully sorry, Poirot,” I murmured, rather crestfallen. “I thought I’d downed him all right.”
    â€œYes, that was a Japanese trick, I fancy. Do not distress yourself, mon ami . All went according to plan—his plan. That is what I wanted.”
    â€œWhat’s this?” I cried, pouncing on a brown object that lay on the floor.
    It was a slim pocketbook of brown leather, and had evidently fallen from our visitor’s pocket during his struggle with me. It contained two receipted bills in the name of M. Felix Laon, and a folded-up piece of paper which made my heart beat faster. It was a half sheet of notepaper on which a few words were scrawled in pencil, but they were words of supreme importance.
    â€œThe next meeting of the council will be on Friday at 34 rue des Echelles at 11 a.m.”
    It was signed with a big figure 4.
    And today was Friday, and the clock on the mantelpiece showed the hour to be 10:30.
    â€œMy God, what a chance!” I cried. “Fate is playing into our hands. We must start at once, though. What stupendous luck.”
    â€œSo that was why he came,” murmured Poirot. “I see it all now.”
    â€œSee what? Come on, Poirot, don’t stay daydreaming there.”
    Poirot looked at me, and slowly shook his head, smiling as he did so.
    â€œâ€˜Will you walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly?’ That is your little English nursery rhyme, is it not? No, no—they are subtle—but not so subtle as Hercule Poirot.”
    â€œWhat on earth are you driving at, Poirot?”
    â€œMy friend, I have been asking myself the reason of this morning’s visit. Did our visitor really hope to succeed in bribing me? Or, alternatively, in frightening me into abandoning my task? It seemed hardly credible. Why, then, did he come? And now I see the whole plan—very neat—very pretty—the ostensible reason to bribe or frighten me—the necessary struggle which he took no pains to avoid, and which should make the dropped pocketbook natural and reasonable—and finally—the pitfall! Rue des Echelles, 11 a.m.? I think not, mon ami!