"Achille Poirot," replied Poirot gravely. "He lives near Spa in Belgium."
"What does he do?" I asked with some curiosity, putting aside a half-formed wonder as to the character and disposition of the late Madame Poirot, and her classical taste in Christian names.
"He does nothing. He is, as I tell, of a singularly indolent disposition. But his abilities are hardly less than my own—which is saying a great deal."
"Is he like you to look at?"
"Not unlike. But not nearly so handsome. And he wears no moustaches."
"Is he older than you, or younger?"
"He happens to have been born on the same day."
"A twin," I cried.
"Exactly, Hastings. You jump to the right conclusion with unfailing accuracy. But here we are at home again. Let us at once get to work on that little affair of the Duchess's necklace."
But the Duchess's necklace was doomed to wait awhile. A case of quite another description was waiting for us.