"'Will you walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly?' That is your little English nursery rhyme, is it not? No, no—they are subtle—but not so subtle as Hercule Poirot."
"What on earth are you driving at, Poirot?"
"My friend, I have been asking myself the reason of this morning's visit. Did our visitor really hope to succeed in bribing me? Or, alternatively, in frightening me into abandoning my task? It seemed hardly credible. Why, then, did he come? And now I see the whole plan—very neat—very pretty—the ostensible reason to bribe or frighten me—the necessary struggle which he took no pains to avoid, and which should make the dropped pocket-book natural and reasonable—and finally—the pitfall! Rue des Echelles, 11 a.m.? I think not, mon ami! One does not catch Hercule Poirot as easily as that."
"Good heavens," I gasped.
Poirot was frowning to himself.
"There is still one thing I do not understand."
"What is that?"
"The time, Hastings—the time. If they wanted to decoy me away, surely night time would be better? Why this early hour? Is it possible that something is about to happen this morning? Something which they are anxious Hercule Poirot should not know about?"
He shook his head.
"We shall see. Here I sit, mon ami. We do not stir out this morning. We await events here."