“Well, you see, it’s this way, Monsieur Poirot. On Friday we’re going down to

Yardly Chase to spend a few days with Lord and Lady Yardly.”

 

Her words awoke a vague echo of remembrance in my mind. Some gossip—what was it

now? A few years ago Lord and Lady Yardly had paid a visit to the States, rumour

had it that his lordship had rather gone the pace out there with the assistance

of some lady friends—but surely there was something more, some gossip which

coupled Lady Yardly’s name with that of a “movie” star in California—why! it

came to me in a flash—of course it was none other than Gregory B. Rolf.

 

“I’ll let you into a little secret, Monsieur Poirot,” Miss Marvell was

continuing. “We’ve got a deal on with Lord Yardly. There’s some chance of our

arranging to film a play down there in his ancestral pile.”

 

“At Yardly Chase?” I cried, interested. “Why, it’s one of the show places of

England.”

 

Miss Marvell nodded.

 

“I guess it’s the real old feudal stuff all right. But he wants a pretty stiff

price, and of course I don’t know yet whether the deal will go through, but Greg

and I always like to combine business with pleasure.”

 

“But—I demand pardon if I am dense, madame—surely it is possible to visit Yardly