“Clearly he wrote the letter keeping himself well in hand, but at the end his self-control snapped and, on the impulse of the moment, he scrawled those four desperate words.” But my friend shook his head energetically. “You are in error. See you not that while the ink of the signature is nearly black, that of the postscript is quite pale?” “Well?” I said puzzled. “_Mon Dieu, mon ami___, but use your little grey cells! Is it not obvious? M. Renauld wrote his letter. Without blotting it, he reread it carefully. Then, not on impulse, but deliberately, he added those last words, and blotted the sheet.” “But why?” “_Parbleu!___ so that it should produce the effect upon me that it has upon you.” “What?” “_Mais, oui___—to make sure of my coming! He reread the letter and was dissatisfied. It was not strong enough!” He paused, and then added softly, his eyes shining with that green light that always betokened inward excitement: “And so, _mon ami___, since that postscript was added, not on impulse, but soberly, in cold blood, the urgency is very great, and we must reach him as soon as possible.” “Merlinville,” I murmured thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of it, I think.” Poirot nodded. “It is a quiet little place—but chic! It lies about midway between Bolougne and Calais. It is rapidly becoming the fashion. Rich English people who wish to be quiet are taking it up. M. Renauld has a house in England, I suppose?” “Yes, in Rutland Gate, as far as I remember. Also a big place in the country, somewhere in Hertfordshire. But I really know very little about him, he doesn’t do much in a social way. I believe he has large South American interests in the City, and has spent most of his life out in Chile and the Argentino.” “Well, we shall hear all details from the man himself. Come, let us pack. A small suit-case each, and then a taxi to Victoria.” “And the Countess?” I inquired with a smile. “Ah! _je m’en fiche!___ Her case was certainly not interesting.” “Why so sure of that?” “Because in that case she would have come, not written. A woman cannot wait—always remember that, Hastings.” Eleven o’clock saw our departure from Victoria on our way to Dover. Before starting Poirot had despatched a telegram to Mr. Renauld giving the time of our arrival at Calais. “I’m surprised you haven’t invested in a few bottles of some sea sick remedy, Poirot,” I observed maliciously, as I recalled our conversation at breakfast. My friend, who was anxiously scanning the weather, turned a reproachful face upon me. “Is it that you have forgotten the method most excellent of Laverguier? His system, I practise it always. One balances oneself, if you remember, turning the head from left to right, breathing in and out, counting six between each breath.” “H’m,” I demurred. “You’ll be rather tired of balancing yourself and counting six by the time you get to Santiago, or Buenos Ayres, or wherever it is you land.”