I fancied that Ingles looked rather relieved.
"I don't suppose that I shall be in any more danger in China than you are in London," he growled.
"That is possibly true enough," admitted Poirot. "I hope that they will not succeed in massacring Hastings also, that is all.
That would annoy me greatly."
I interrupted this cheerful conversation to remark that I had no intention of letting myself be massacred, and shortly afterwards Ingles parted from us.
For some time we went along in silence, which Poirot at length broke by uttering a totally unexpected remark.
"I think - I really think - that I shall have to bring my brother into this."
"Your brother," I cried, astonished. "I never knew you had a brother?"
"You surprise me, Hastings.
Do you not know that all celebrated detectives have brothers who would be even more celebrated than they are were it not for constitutional indolence?"
Poirot employs a peculiar manner sometimes which makes it well-nigh impossible to know whether he is jesting or in earnest.
That manner was very evident at the moment.
"What is your brother's name?" I asked, trying to adjust myself to this new idea.
"Achille Poirot," replied Poirot gravely. "He lives near Spa in Belgium."
"What does he do?" I asked with some curiosity, putting aside a half-formed wonder as to the character and disposition of the late Madame Poirot, and her classical taste in Christian names.
"He does nothing.
He is, as I tell, of a singularly indolent disposition.
But his abilities are hardly less than my own - which is saying a great deal."
"Is he like you to look at?"
"Not unlike.
But not nearly so handsome.
And he wears no moustaches."
"Is he older than you, or younger?"
"He happens to have been born on the same day."
"A twin, "I cried.
"Exactly, Hastings.
You jump to the right conclusion with unfailing accuracy.
But here we are at home again.
Let us at once get to work on that little affair of the Duchess's necklace."
But the Duchess's necklace was doomed to wait awhile. A case of quite another description was waiting for us.
Our landlady, Mrs. Pearson, at once informed us that a hospital nurse had called and was waiting to see Poirot.
We found her sitting in the big arm-chair facing the window, a pleasant-faced woman of middle age, in a dark blue uniform.
She was a little reluctant to come to the point, but Poirot soon put her at her ease, and she embarked upon her story.
"You see, M. Poirot, I've never come across anything of the kind before.
I was sent for, from the Lark Sisterhood, to go down to a case in Hertfordshire.
An old gentleman, it is, Mr. Templeton.
Quite a pleasant house, and quite pleasant people.
The wife, Mrs. Templeton, is much younger than her husband, and he has a son by his first marriage who lives there.
I don't know that the young man and the step-mother always get on together.
He's not quite what you'd call normal - not 'wanting' exactly, but decidedly dull in the intellect.
Well, this illness of Mr. Templeton's seemed to me from the first to be very mysterious.
At times there seemed really nothing the matter with him, and then he suddenly has one of these gastric attacks with pain and vomiting.
But the doctor seemed quite satisfied, and it wasn't for me to say anything.
But I couldn't help thinking about it.
And then -" She paused, and became rather red.
"Something happened which aroused your suspicions?" suggested Poirot.
"Yes."
But she still seemed to find it difficult to go on.
"I found the servants were passing remarks too."
"About Mr. Templeton's illness?"