“What an intelligence has my friend Hastings!” he exclaimed sarcastically. “Comprehend you not that I have forbidden such a loaf—a loaf haphazard and shapeless, that no baker should permit himself to bake!” I endeavoured to distract his mind. “Anything interesting come by the post?” Poirot shook his head with a dissatisfied air. “I have not yet examined my letters, but nothing of interest arrives nowadays. The great criminals, the criminals of method, they do not exist. The cases I have been employed upon lately were _banal___ to the last degree. In verity I am reduced to recovering lost lap-dogs for fashionable ladies! The last problem that presented any interest was that intricate little affair of the Yardly diamond, and that was—how many months ago, my friend?” He shook his head despondently, and I roared with laughter. “Cheer up, Poirot, the luck will change. Open your letters. For all you know, there may be a great Case looming on the horizon.” Poirot smiled, and taking up the neat little letter opener with which he opened his correspondence he slit the tops of the several envelopes that lay by his plate. “A bill. Another bill. It is that I grow extravagant in my old age. Aha! a note from Japp.” “Yes?” pricked up my ears. The Scotland Yard Inspector had more than once introduced us to an interesting case. “He merely thanks me (in his fashion) for a little point in the Aberystwyth Case on which I was able to set him right. I am delighted to have been of service to him.” “How does he thank you?” I asked curiously, for I knew my Japp. “He is kind enough to say that I am a wonderful sport for my age, and that he was glad to have had the chance of letting me in on the case.” This was so typical of Japp, that I could not forbear a chuckle. Poirot continued to read his correspondence placidly. “A suggestion that I should give a lecture to our local boy scouts. The Countess of Forfanock will be obliged if I will call and see her. Another lap-dog without doubt! And now for the last. Ah—” I looked up, quick to notice the change of tone. Poirot was reading attentively. In a minute he tossed the sheet over to me. “This is out of the ordinary, _mon ami___. Read for yourself.” The letter was written on a foreign type of paper, in a bold characteristic hand: “Villa Geneviève Merlinville-sur-Mer France