Let us go there.
We walked together slowly, for the sun was hot.
Mr Mercado was in command.
We saw him below us talking to the foreman, an old man like a tortoise who wore a tweed coat over his long striped cotton gown.
It was a little difficult to get down to them as there was only a narrow path or stair and basket-boys were going up and down it constantly, and they always seemed to be as blind as bats and never to think of getting out of the way.
As I followed Poirot down he said suddenly over his shoulder: Is Mr Mercado right-handed or left-handed?
Now that was an extraordinary question if you like!
I thought a minute, then: Right-handed, I said decisively.
Poirot didnt condescend to explain.
He just went on and I followed him.
Mr Mercado seemed rather pleased to see us.
His long melancholy face lit up.
M. Poirot pretended to an interest in archaeology that Im sure he couldnt have really felt, but Mr Mercado responded at once.
He explained that they had already cut down through twelve levels of house occupation.
We are now definitely in the fourth millennium, he said with enthusiasm.
I always thought a millennium was in the future the time when everything comes right.
Mr Mercado pointed out belts of ashes (how his hand did shake!
I wondered if he might possibly have malaria) and he explained how the pottery changed in character, and about burials and how they had had one level almost entirely composed of infant burials poor little things and about flexed position and orientation, which seemed to mean the way the bones were lying.
And then suddenly, just as he was stooping down to pick up a kind of flint knife that was lying with some pots in a corner, he leapt into the air with a wild yell.
He spun round to find me and Poirot staring at him in astonishment.
He clapped his hand to his left arm. Something stung me like a red-hot needle.
Immediately Poirot was galvanized into energy.
Quick, mon cher, let us see.
Nurse Leatheran!
I came forward.
He seized Mr Mercados arm and deftly rolled back the sleeve of his khaki shirt to the shoulder.
There, said Mr Mercado pointing.
About three inches below the shoulder there was a minute prick from which the blood was oozing.
Curious, said Poirot.
He peered into the rolled-up sleeve.
I can see nothing.
It was an ant, perhaps?
Better put on a little iodine, I said.
I always carry an iodine pencil with me, and I whipped it out and applied it.
But I was a little absentminded as I did so, for my attention had been caught by something quite different. Mr Mercados arm, all the way up the forearm to the elbow, was marked all over by tiny punctures.
I knew well enough what they were the marks of a hypodermic needle.
Mr Mercado rolled down his sleeve again and recommenced his explanations.
Mr Poirot listened, but didnt try to bring the conversation round to the Leidners.
In fact, he didnt ask Mr Mercado anything at all.
Presently we said goodbye to Mr Mercado and climbed up the path again.
It was neat that, did you not think so? my companion asked.
Neat? I asked.
M. Poirot took something from behind the lapel of his coat and surveyed it affectionately.
To my surprise I saw that it was a long sharp darning needle with a blob of sealing wax making it into a pin.
M. Poirot, I cried, did you do that?
I was the stinging insect yes.
And very neatly I did it, too, do you not think so?
You did not see me.
That was true enough.
I never saw him do it.