"By a miracle you escaped—Poirot—did not!"
A cry burst from my lips.
"Not dead? Not dead?"
Ridgeway bowed his head, his features working with emotion.
With desperate energy I pulled myself to a sitting position.
"Poirot may be dead," I said weakly. "But his spirit lives on. I will carry on his work! Death to the Big Four!"
Then I fell back, fainting.
16. THE DYING CHINAMAN
Even now I can hardly bear to write of those days in March.
Poirot—the unique, the inimitable Hercule Poirot—dead! There was a particularly diabolical touch in the disarranged match-box, which was certain to catch his eye, and which he would hasten to rearrange—and thereby touch off the explosion. That, as a matter of fact, it was I who actually precipitated the catastrophe never ceased to fill me with unavailing remorse. It was, as Doctor Ridgeway said, a perfect miracle that I had not been killed, but had escaped with a slight concussion.