At last we neared the scene of the excavations. A sunburnt man with a grey beard, in white clothes and wearing a helmet, came to meet us.
“Monsieur Poirot and Captain Hastings? We received your cable. I’m sorry that there was no one to meet you in Cairo. An unforeseen event occurred which completely disorganized our plans.”
Poirot paled. His hand, which had stolen to his clothes-brush, stayed its course.
“Not another death?” he breathed.
“Yes.”
“Sir Guy Willard?” I cried.
“No, Captain Hastings. My American colleague, Mr. Schneider.”
“And the cause?” demanded Poirot.
“Tetanus.”
I blanched. All around me I seemed to feel an atmosphere of evil, subtle and menacing. A horrible thought flashed across me. Supposing I were the next?