“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

 

“You have it with you—_hein_?” Poirot was watching her narrowly.

 

The girl hesitated a moment, then slipped her hand into the bosom of her gown,

drawing out a long thin chain. She leaned forward, unclosing her hand. In the

palm, a stone of white fire, exquisitely set in platinum, lay and winked at us

solemnly.

 

Poirot drew in his breath with a long hiss.

 

“_Épatant!_” he murmured. “You permit, madame?” He took the jewel in his own

hand and scrutinized it keenly, then restored it to her with a little bow. “A

magnificent stone—without a flaw. Ah, _cent tonnerres!_ and you carry it about

with you, _comme ça_!”

 

“No, no, I’m very careful really, Monsieur Poirot. As a rule it’s locked up in

my jewel-case, and left in the hotel safe deposit.

 

We’re staying at the _Magnificent_, you know. I just brought it along to-day for

you to see.”

 

“And you will leave it with me, _n’est-ce pas_? You will be advised by Papa

Poirot?”