“The great detective, _mon ami_, chooses, as ever, the simplest course. He rises

to see for himself.” And my friend joined me at the window.

 

In a minute he gave vent to an amused chuckle.

 

“As usual, your facts are tinged with your incurable romanticism.

 

That is Miss Mary Marvell, the film star. She is being followed by a bevy of

admirers who have recognized her. And, _en passant_, my dear Hastings, she is

quite aware of the fact!”

 

I laughed.

 

“So all is explained! But you get no marks for that, Poirot. It was a mere

matter of recognition.”

 

“_En vérité!_ And how many times have you seen Mary Marvell on the screen, _mon

cher_?”

 

I thought.

 

“About a dozen times perhaps.”

 

“And I—once! Yet _I_ recognize her, and _you_ do not.”