'The Big Four'?" "I suppose it had its origin at the Versailles Conference, and then there's the famous 'Big Four' in the film world, and the term is used by hosts of smaller fry." "I see," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I have come across the phrase, you understand, under certain circumstances where none of those explanations would apply. It seems to refer to a gang of international criminals or something of that kind; only--" "Only what?" I asked, as he hesitated. "Only that I fancy that it is something on a large scale. Just a little idea of mine, nothing more. Ah, but I must complete my packing. The time advances." "Don't go," I urged. "Cancel your passage and come out on the same boat with me." Poirot drew himself up and glanced at me reproachfully. "Ah, it is that you do not understand! I have passed my word, you comprehend--the word of Hercule Poirot. Nothing but a matter of life or death could detain me now." "And that's not likely to occur," I murmured ruefully. "Unless at the eleventh hour 'the door opens and the unexpected guest comes in.'" I quoted the old saw with a slight laugh, and then, in the pause that succeeded it, we both started as a sound came from the inner room. "What's that?" I cried. "Ma foi!" retorted Poirot. "It sounds very like your 'unexpected guest' in my bedroom." "But how can any one be in there? There's no door except into this room." "Your memory is excellent, Hastings. Now for the deductions." "The window! But it's a burglar then? He must have had a stiff climb of it--I should say it was almost impossible." I had risen to my feet and was striding in the direction of the door when the sound of a fumbling at the handle from the other side arrested me. The door swung slowly open. Framed in the doorway stood a man. He was coated from head to foot with dust and mud; his face was thin and emaciated. He stared at us for a moment, and then swayed and fell. Poirot hurried to his side, then he looked up and spoke to me. "Brandy--quickly." I dashed some brandy into a glass and brought it. Poirot managed to administer a little, and together we raised him and carried him to the couch. In a few minutes he opened his eyes and looked round him with an almost vacant stare. "What is it you want, monsieur?" said Poirot. The man opened his lips and spoke in a queer mechanical voice. "M. Hercule Poirot, 14 Farraway Street." "Yes, yes; I am he." The man did not seem to understand, and merely repeated in exactly the same tone:-- "M. Hercule Poirot, 14 Farraway Street." Poirot tried him with several questions. Sometimes the man did not answer at all; sometimes he repeated the same phrase. Poirot made a sign to me to ring up on the telephone. "Get Dr. Ridgeway to come round." The doctor was in luckily; and as his house was only just round the 

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