"There's a man here from 'Anwell—from the 'Sylum. Did you ever? Shall I show him up?"
We signified assent, and a big burly man in uniform was ushered in.
"'Morning, gentlemen," he said cheerfully. "I've got reason to believe you've got one of my birds here. Escaped last night, he did."
"He was here," said Poirot quietly.
"Not got away again, has he?" asked the keeper, with some concern.
"He is dead."
The man looked more relieved than otherwise.
"You don't say so. Well, I dare say it's best for all parties."
"Was he—dangerous?"
"'Omicidal, d'you mean? Oh, no. 'Armless enough. Persecution mania very acute. Full of secret societies from China that had got him shut up. They're all the same."