Her lips brushed my cheek, and then, seeking my mouth, kissed me again and again with a sweetness and fire beyond belief. The wildness of it—and the wonder, I shall not forget—no, not as long as I live! It was a sound in the doorway that made us look up. Poirot was standing there looking at us. I did not hesitate. With a bound I reached him and pinioned his arms to his sides. “Quick,” I said to the girl. “Get out of here. As fast as you can. I’ll hold him.” With one look at me, she fled out of the room past us. I held Poirot in a grip of iron. “_Mon ami___,” observed the latter mildly, “you do this sort of thing very well. The strong man holds me in his grasp and I am helpless as a child. But all this is uncomfortable and slightly ridiculous. Let us sit down and be calm.” “You won’t pursue her?” “_Mon Dieu!___ no. Am I Giraud? Release me, my friend.” Keeping a suspicious eye upon him, for I paid Poirot the compliment of knowing that I was no match for him in astuteness, I relaxed my grip, and he sank into an arm-chair, feeling his arms tenderly. “It is that you have the strength of a bull when you are roused, Hastings! _Eh bien___, and do you think you have behaved well to your old friend? I show you the girl’s photograph and you recognize it, but you never say a word.” “There was no need if you knew that I recognized it,” I said rather bitterly. So Poirot had known all along! I had not deceived him for an instant. “Ta-ta! You did not know that I knew that. And tonight you help the girl to escape when we have found her with so much trouble! _Eh bien!___ it comes to this—are you going to work with me or against me, Hastings?” For a moment or two I did not answer. To break with my old friend gave me great pain. Yet I must definitely range myself against him. Would he ever forgive me, I wondered? He had been strangely calm so far, but I knew him to possess marvellous self-command. “Poirot,” I said, “I’m sorry. I admit I’ve behaved badly to you over this. But sometimes one has no choice. And in future I must take my own line.” Poirot nodded his head several times. “I understand,” he said. The mocking light had quite died out of his eyes, and he spoke with a sincerity and kindness that surprised me. “It is that, my friend, is it not? It is love that has come—not as you imagined it, all cock a hoop with fine feathers, but sadly, with bleeding feet. Well, well—I warned you. When I realized that this girl must have taken the dagger, I warned you. Perhaps you remember. But already it was too late. But, tell me, how much do you know?” I met his eyes squarely.