Mr. Cust shook him warmly by the hand.
“You’re a very great man, M. Poirot.”
Poirot, as usual, did not disdain the compliment. He did not even succeed in looking modest.
When Mr. Cust had strutted importantly out, my old friend smiled across at me.
“So, Hastings—we went hunting once more, did we not? Vive le sport.”
* * *