Poirot passed into the room. It was a fair-sized
room, very plainly furnished in a workmanlike
fashion. Filing cabinets, books of reference, a
couple of easy chairs, and a large and imposing
desk covered with neatly docketed papers. The
corners of the room were dim, for the only light
came from a big green-shaded reading-lamp which
stood on a small table by the arm of one of the
easy chairs. It was placed so as to cast its full light
on anyone approaching from the door. Hercule
Poirot blinked a little, realizing that the lamp bulb
was at least 150 watts. In the armchair sat a thin
figure in a patchwork dressing-gown--Benedict
Farley. His head was stuck forward in a char
acteristic
attitude, his beaked nose projecting like that
of a bird. A crest of white hair like that of a cockatoo
rose above his forehead. His eyes glittered
THE DREAM
149
behind thick lenses as he peered suspiciously at his
visitor.
"Hey," he said at last--and his voice was shrill
and harsh, with a rasping note in it. "So you're
Hercule Poirot, hey?"
"At your service," said Poirot politely and
bowed, one hand on the back of the chair.
"Sit down--sit down," said the old man testily.
Hercule Poirot sat down--in the full glare of
the lamp. From behind it the old man seemed to