“Some other way,” I muttered.
“Ah! Sapristi! But it is miracles you ask from me. No—say no more. Let us instead see what is in this letter.”
And he drew out the envelope from his breast pocket.
His face contracted as he read, then he handed the one flimsy sheet to me.
“There are other women in the world who suffer, Hastings.”
The writing was blurred and the note had evidently been written in great agitation:
“Dear M. Poirot:
“If you get this, I beg of you to come to my aid. I have no one to turn to, and at all costs Jack must be saved. I implore of you on my knees to help us.
“MARTHE DAUBREUIL.”
I handed it back, moved.
“You will go?”