“Captain Hastings? You are M. Poirot’s partner, I understand. It is imperative that he should come with me to Derbyshire today.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” I replied. “Poirot is ill in bed—influenza.”
His face fell.
“Dear me, that is a great blow to me.”
“The matter on which you want to consult him is serious?”
“My God, yes! My uncle, the best friend I have in the world, was foully murdered last night.”
“Here in London?”
“No, in Derbyshire. I was in town and received a telegram from my wife this morning. Immediately upon its receipt I determined to come round and beg M. Poirot to undertake the case.”
“If you will excuse me a minute,” I said, struck by a sudden idea.
I rushed upstairs, and in few brief words acquainted Poirot with the situation. He took any further words out of my mouth.