‘Oh, come,’ I protested, ‘isn’t that a bit far-fetched? How would a Chinaman cut any ice in Russia?’ Poirot frowned at me irritably.
‘For you, Hastings,’ he said, ‘everything is far-fetched that comes not from your own imagination; for me, I agree with this gentleman. But continue, I pray, monsieur.’
Poor Hastings. This is the third or fourth time in 20 pages that he is shot down.