shan't cut up rough over it. Damned fools at the
dairy thought they could charge me two and nine
for eggs when two and seven's the market price--lot
of swindlers! I won't be swindled. But the man
at the top's different. He's worth the money. I'm
at the top myself--I know."
Hercule Poirot made no reply. He listened at-tentively,
his head poised a little on one side.
Behind his impassive exterior he was conscious
of a feeling of disappointment. He could not ex-actly
put his finger on it. So far Benedict Farley
had run true to type--that is, he had conformed to
the popular idea of himself; and yet--Poirot was
disappointed.
"The man," he said disgustedly to himself, "is
a mountebank--nothing but a mountebank!"
He had known other millionaires, eccentric men
too, but in nearly every case he had been conscious
of a certain force, an inner energy that had com-manded
his respect. If they had worn a patchwork
dressing-gown, it would have been because they
liked wearing such a dressing-gown. But the dress-ing-gown
of Benedict Farley, or so it seemed to
Poirot, was essentially a stage property. And the
man himself was essentially stagey. Every word he
spoke was uttered, so Poirot felt assured, sheerly
for effect.
He repeated again unemotionally, "You wished
to consult me, Mr. Farley?"
Abruptly the millionaire's manner changed.