I drew Poirot aside.

 

“Look here, my dear fellow, hadn’t we better get back to London?”

 

“You think so, Hastings? Why?”

 

“Well”—I coughed delicately—“things haven’t gone very well, have they? I mean,

you tell Lord Yardly to place himself in your hands and all will be well—and

then the diamond vanishes from under your very nose!”

 

“True,” said Poirot, rather crestfallen. “It was not one of my most striking

triumphs.”

 

This way of describing events almost caused me to smile, but I stuck to my guns.

 

“So, having—pardon the expression—rather made a mess of things, don’t you think

it would be more graceful to leave immediately?”

 

“And the dinner, the without doubt excellent dinner, that the _chef_ of Lord

Yardly has prepared?”

 

“Oh, what’s dinner!” I said impatiently.

 

Poirot held up his hands in horror.