The Hunter’s Lodge Case by Agatha Christie [Illustration] The famous “little gray cells” of the great detective Poirot function admirably in solving what at first seems a particularly puzzling murder mystery. “After all,” murmured Poirot, “it is possible that I shall not die this time.” Coming from a convalescent influenza patient, I hailed the remark as showing a beneficial optimism. I myself had been the first sufferer from the disease. Poirot in his turn had gone down. He was now sitting up in bed, propped up with pillows. “Yes, yes,” my little friend continued. “Once more shall I be myself again, the great Hercule Poirot, the terror of evildoers! Figure to yourself, _mon ami_, that I have a little paragraph to myself in _Society Gossip_. But yes! Here it is! “‘Go it, criminals—all out! Hercule Poirot,—and believe me, girls, he’s some Hercules!—our own pet society detective can’t get a grip on you. ’Cause why? ’Cause he’s got _la grippe_ himself!’” I laughed. “Good for you, Poirot. You are becoming quite a public character. And fortunately you haven’t missed anything of particular interest during this time.” “That is true. The few cases I have had to decline did not fill me with any regret.” Our landlady stuck her head in at the door. “There’s a gentleman downstairs. Says he must see M. Poirot or you, Captain. Seeing as he was in a great to-do,—and with all that quite the gentleman,—I brought up ’is card.” She handed me the bit of pasteboard. “‘Hon. Roger Havering,’” I read. Poirot motioned with his head toward the bookcase, and I obediently pulled forth the “Who’s Who.” Poirot took it from me and scanned the pages rapidly. “Second son of fifth Baron Windsor. Married 1913 Zoe, fourth daughter of William Crabb.” “H’m,” I said. “I rather fancy that’s the girl who used to act at the Frivolity—only she called herself Zoe Carrisbrook. I remember she married some young man about town just before the war.” “Would it interest you, Hastings, to go down and hear what our visitor’s particular trouble is? Make him all my excuses.” Roger Havering was a man of about forty, well set up and of smart appearance. His face, however, was haggard, and he was evidently laboring under great agitation. “Captain Hastings? You are M. Poirot’s partner, I understand. It is imperative that he should come with me to Derbyshire today.” “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” I replied. “Poirot is ill in bed—influenza.” His face fell. “Dear me, that is a great blow to me.” “The matter on which you want to consult him is serious?” “My God, yes! My uncle, the best friend I have in the world, was foully murdered last night.” “Here in London?” “No, in Derbyshire. I was in town and received a telegram from my wife this morning. Immediately upon its receipt I determined to come round and beg M. Poirot to undertake the case.” “If you will excuse me a minute,” I said, struck by a sudden idea.