“I see, madame, that you believe the diamond referred to to be——”

 

“‘The Western Star,’” finished Miss Marvell. “That’s so. At the time, Gregory

remembers that there was some story attached to the stone, but the Chink wasn’t

handing out any information. Gregory says he seemed just scared to death, and in

a mortal hurry to get rid of the thing. He only asked about a tenth of its

value. It was Greg’s wedding present to me.”

 

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

 

“The story seems of an almost unbelievable romanticism. And yet—who knows? I

pray of you, Hastings, hand me my little almanac.”

 

I complied.

 

“_Voyons!_” said Poirot, turning the leaves.

 

“When is the date of the full moon? Ah, Friday next. That is in three days’

time. _Eh bien_, madame, you seek my advice—I give it to you. This _belle

histoire_ may be a hoax—but it may not!

 

Therefore I counsel you to place the diamond in my keeping until after Friday

next. Then we can take what steps we please.”

 

A slight cloud passed over the actress’s face, and she replied constrainedly: