“Still, the stone _is_ known as ‘The Star of the East.’”

 

“Well, what if it is?” he demanded wrathfully.

 

Poirot smiled a little, but made no direct reply. “What I would ask you to do,

_milord_, is to place yourself in my hands. If you do so unreservedly, I have

great hopes of averting the catastrophe.”

 

“Then you think there’s actually something in these wild-cat tales?”

 

“Will you do as I ask you?”

 

“Of course I will, but——”

 

“_Bien!_ Then permit that I ask you a few questions. This affair of Yardly

Chase, is it, as you say, all fixed up between you and Mr. Rolf?”

 

“Oh, he told you about it, did he? No, there’s nothing settled.” He hesitated,

the brick-red colour of his face deepening. “Might as well get the thing

straight. I’ve made rather an ass of myself in many ways, Monsieur Poirot—and

I’m head over ears in debt—but I want to pull up. I’m fond of the kids, and I

want to straighten things up, and be able to live on at the old place. Gregory

Rolf is offering me big money—enough to set me on my feet again. I don’t want to

do it—I hate the thought of all that crowd play-acting round the Chase—but I may

have to, unless——” He broke off.