They were met on arrival by Poirot. As the day was warm he was attired in a white duck suit, with a white camellia in his buttonhole.
"Bon jour, Mademoiselle," said Poirot. "I look very English, do I not?"
"You look wonderful," said Katherine tactfully.
"You mock yourself at me," said Poirot genially, "but no matter. Papa Poirot, he always laughs the last."
"Where is Mr. Van Aldin?" asked Knighton.
"He will meet us at our seats. To tell you the truth, my friend, he is not too well pleased with me. Oh, those Americans—the repose, the calm, they know it not! Mr. Van Aldin, he would that I fly myself in the pursuit of criminals through all the byways of Nice."
"I should have thought myself that it would not have been a bad plan," observed Knighton.
"You are wrong," said Poirot; "in these matters one needs not energy but finesse. At the tennis one meets every one. That is so important. Ah, there is Mr. Kettering."
Derek came abruptly up to them. He looked reckless and angry, as though something had arisen to upset him. He and Knighton greeted each other with some frigidity. Poirot alone seemed unconscious of any sense of strain, and chatted pleasantly in a laudable attempt to put every one at his ease. He paid little compliments.
"It is amazing, M. Kettering, how well you speak the French," he observed—"so well that you could be taken for a Frenchman if you chose. That is a very rare accomplishment among Englishmen."