"Rot," I said. "I shall light the fire, anyway, and have a pipe. I've caught you out for once. You had the matches last and you didn't put them back in the holder as usual—the very thing you're always cursing me for doing."
I stretched out my hand. I heard Poirot's warning cry—saw him leaping towards me—my hand touched the match-box.
Then—a flash of blue flame—an ear-rending crash—and darkness—
I came to myself to find the familiar face of our old friend Dr. Ridgeway bending over me. An expression of relief passed over his features.
"Keep still," he said soothingly. "You're all right. There's been an accident, you know."
"Poirot?" I murmured.
"You're in my digs. Everything's quite all right."
A cold fear clutched at my heart. His evasion woke a horrible fear.
"Poirot?" I reiterated. "What of Poirot."
He saw that I had to know and that further evasions were useless.