In the House of the Enemy
After our adventure in the villa at Passy, we returned posthaste to London. Several letters were awaiting Poirot. He read one of them with a curious smile, and then handed it to me.
“Read this, mon ami.”
I turned first to the signature, “Abe Ryland,” and recalled Poirot’s words: “the richest man in the world.” Mr. Ryland’s letter was curt and incisive. He expressed himself as profoundly dissatisfied with the reason Poirot had given for withdrawing from the South American proposition at the last moment.
“This gives one furiously to think, does it not?” said Poirot.
“I suppose it’s only natural he should be a bit ratty.”
“No, no, you comprehend not. Remember the words of Mayerling, the man who took refuge here—only to die by the hands of his enemies. ‘Number T
