"At the instant!" cried Poirot, disappearing into his bedroom, and reappearing with a hat.
A taxi soon took us to our destination, and we were ushered into Mr. McNeil's private office.
Sitting in the arm-chair facing the solicitor was a somewhat lurid looking lady no longer in her first youth.
Her hair was of an impossible yellow, and was prolific in curls over each ear, her eyelids were heavily blackened, and she had by no means forgotten the rouge and the lip salve.
"Ah, here is M. Poirot.'" said Mr. McNeil. "M. Poirot, this is Miss - er - Monro, who has very kindly called to give us some information."
"Ah, but that is most kind!" cried Poirot.
He came forward with great empressement, and shook the lady warmly by the hand.
"Mademoiselle blooms like a flower in this dry-as-dust old office," he added, careless of the feelings of Mr. McNeil.
This outrageous flattery was not without effect.
Miss Monro blushed and simpered.
"Oh, go on now, Mr. Poirot!" she exclaimed. "I know what you Frenchmen are like."
"Mademoiselle, we are not mute like Englishmen before beauty.
Not that I am a Frenchman - I am a Belgian, you see."
"I've been to Ostend myself," said Miss Monro.
The whole affair, as Poirot would have said, was marching splendidly.
"And so you can tell us something about Mr. Claud Darrell?" continued Poirot.
"I knew Mr. Darrell very well at one time," explained the lady. "And I saw your advertisement, being out of a job for the moment, and my time being my own, I said to myself: There, they want to know about poor old Claudie - lawyers, too - maybe it's a fortune looking for the rightful heir, I'd better go round at once."
Mr. McNeil rose.
"Well, Monsieur Poirot, shall I leave you for a little conversation with Miss Monro?"
"You are too amiable.
But stay - a little idea presents itself to me.
The hour of the dejeuner approaches.
Mademoiselle will perhaps honour me by coming out to luncheon with me?"
Miss Monro's eyes glistened.
It struck me that she was in exceedingly low water, and that the chance of a square meal was not to be despised.
A few minutes later saw us all in a taxi, bound for one of London's most expensive restaurants.
Once arrived there, Poirot ordered a most delectable lunch, and then turned to his guest.
"And for wine, mademoiselle?
What do you say to champagne?"
Miss Monro said nothing - or everything.
The meal started pleasantly.
Poirot replenished the lady's glass with thoughtful assiduity, and gradually slid on to the topic nearest his heart.
"The poor Mr. Darrell.
What a pity he is not with us."
"Yes, indeed," sighed Miss Monro. "Poor boy, I do wonder what's become of him."
"It is a long time since you have seen him, yes?"
"Oh, simply ages - not since the war.
He was a funny boy, Claudie, very close about things, never told you a word about himself.
But, of course, that all fits in if he's a missing heir.
Is it a title, Mr. Poirot?"
"Alas, a mere heritage," said Poirot unblushingly. "But you see, it may be a question of identification.
That is why it is necessary for us to find some one who knew him very well indeed.
You knew him very well, did you not, mademoiselle?"
"I don't mind telling you, Mr. Poirot. You're a gentleman.
You know how to order a lunch for a lady - which is more than some of these young whippersnappers do nowadays.
Downright mean, I call it.
As I was saying, you being a Frenchman won't be shocked.
Ah, you Frenchmen!
Naughty, naughty!" She wagged her finger at him in an excess of archness. "Well, there it was, me and Claudie, two young things - what else could you expect?
And I've still a kindly feeling for him.