Now, Captain Hastings, you have still one more part to play.
Unless you show yourself he will not enter the house.
When he arrives opposite, you must go out on the step and beckon him in."
"What?" I cried, revolted.
"You play that part alone.
Remember the price of failure.
If Hercule Poirot suspects anything is amiss and does not enter the house, your wife dies by the Seventy Lingering Deaths!
Ah! Here he is."
With a beating heart, and a feeling of deathly sickness. I looked through the crack in the shutters.
In the figure walking along the opposite side of the street I recognised my friend at once, though his coat collar was turned up and an immense yellow muffler hid the bottom part of his face.
But there was no mistaking that walk, and the poise of that egg-shaped head.
It was Poirot, coming to my aid in all good faith, suspecting nothing amiss.
By his side ran a typical London urchin, grimy of face and ragged of apparel.
Poirot paused, looking across at the house, whilst the boy spoke to him eagerly and pointed.
It was the time for me to act.
I went out in the hall.
At a sign from the tall Chinaman, one of the servants unlatched the door.
"Remember the price of failure," said my enemy in a low voice.
I was outside on the steps.
I beckoned to Poirot.
He hastened across.
"Aha!
So all is well with you, my friend.
I was beginning to be anxious.
You managed to get inside?
Is the house empty, then?"
"Yes," I said, in a voice I strove to make natural. "There must be a secret way out of it somewhere.
Come in and let us look for it."
I stepped back across the threshold.
In all innocence Poirot prepared to follow me.
And then something seemed to snap in my head.
I saw only too clearly the part I was playing - the part of Judas.
"Back, Poirot!" I cried. "Back for your life.
It's a trap.
Never mind me.
Get away at once."
Even as I spoke - or rather shouted my warning hands gripped me like a vice.
One of the Chinese servants sprang past me to grab Poirot.
I saw the latter spring back, his arm raised, then suddenly a dense volume of smoke was rising round me, choking me - killing me - I felt myself falling - suffocating - this was death - I came to myself slowly and painfully - all my senses dazed.
The first thing I saw was Poirot's face.
He was sitting opposite me watching me with an anxious face.
He gave a cry of joy when he saw me looking at him.
"Ah, you revive - you return to yourself.
All is well!
My friend - my poor friend!"
"Where am I?" I said painfully.
"Where?
But chez vous!"
I looked round me.
True enough, I was in the old familiar surroundings.