“_Dear Sir___, “I am in need of the services of a detective and, for reasons which I will give you later, do not wish to call in the official police. I have heard of you from several quarters, and all reports go to show that you are not only a man of decided ability, but one who also knows how to be discreet. I do not wish to trust details to the post, but, on account of a secret I possess, I go in daily fear of my life. I am convinced that the danger is imminent, and therefore I beg that you will lose no time in crossing to France. I will send a car to meet you at Calais, if you will wire me when you are arriving. I shall be obliged if you will drop all cases you have on hand, and devote yourself solely to my interests. I am prepared to pay any compensation necessary. I shall probably need your services for a considerable period of time, as it may be necessary for you to go out to Santiago, where I spent several years of my life. I shall be content for you to name your own fee. “Assuring you once more that the matter is _urgent___, “Yours faithfully “P. T. RENAULD.” Below the signature was a hastily scrawled line, almost illegible: “For God’s sake, come!” I handed the letter back with quickened pulses. “At last!” I said. “Here is something distinctly out of the ordinary.” “Yes, indeed,” said Poirot meditatively. “You will go of course,” I continued. Poirot nodded. He was thinking deeply. Finally he seemed to make up his mind, and glanced up at the clock. His face was very grave. “See you, my friend, there is no time to lose. The Continental express leaves Victoria at 11 o’clock. Do not agitate yourself. There is plenty of time. We can allow ten minutes for discussion. You accompany me, _n’est-ce pas?___” “Well—” “You told me yourself that your employer needed you not for the next few weeks.” “Oh, that’s all right. But this Mr. Renauld hints strongly that his business is private.” “Ta-ta-ta. I will manage M. Renauld. By the way, I seem to know the name?” “There’s a well-known South American millionaire fellow. His name’s Renauld. I don’t know whether it could be the same.” “But without doubt. That explains the mention of Santiago. Santiago is in Chile, and Chile it is in South America! Ah, but we progress finely.” “Dear me, Poirot,” I said, my excitement rising, “I smell some goodly shekels in this. If we succeed, we shall make our fortunes!” “Do not be too sure of that, my friend. A rich man and his money are not so easily parted. Me, I have seen a well-known millionaire turn out a tramful of people to seek for a dropped halfpenny.” I acknowledged the wisdom of this. “In any case,” continued Poirot, “it is not the money which attracts me here. Certainly it will be pleasant to have _carte blanche___ in our investigations; one can be sure that way of wasting no time, but it is something a little bizarre in this problem which arouses my interest. You remarked the postscript? How did it strike you?” I considered.