Luigi shrugged his expressive shoulders.
"A command, Monsieur! A. special order!
Without doubt, the favorite flowers of one of the
ladies. That table, it is the table of Mr. Barton
Russell--an American--immensely rich."
"Aha, one must study the whims of the ladies,
must one not, Luigi?"
"Monsieur has said it," said LLfigi.
"I see at that table an acquaintance of mine. I
must go and speak to him."
Poirot skirted his way delicately round the
dancing floor on which couples were revolving.
The table in question was set for six, but it had at
the moment only one occupant, a young man who
was thoughtfully, and it seemed pessimistically,
drinking champagne.
He was not at all the person that Poirot had ex-pected
to see. It seemed impossible to associate the
idea of danger or melodrama with any party of
which Tony Chapell was a member.
Poirot paused delicately by the table.
"Ah, it is, is it not, my friend Anthony Chap-ell?"
"By all that's wonderful--Poirot the police
hound!" cried the young man. "Not Anthony, my
dear fellow--Tony to friends!"
He drew out a chair.
"Come, sit with me. Let us discourse of crime!
Let us go further and drink to crime." He poured
champagne into an empty glass. "But what are
you doing in this haunt of song and dance and