watched you out of the hotel, sir, and nipped in as soon as you were well away.”

 

“What about the jewel-case?” I asked.

 

“It was found in a corridor of the hotel. Only one thing had been taken—‘the

Western Star.’”

 

We stared at each other—the whole thing was so bizarre, so unreal.

 

Poirot hopped briskly to his feet. “I have not been of much use, I fear,” he

said regretfully. “Is it permitted to see Madame?”

 

“I guess she’s prostrated with the shock,” explained Rolf.

 

“Then perhaps I might have a few words alone with you, monsieur?”

 

“Certainly.”

 

In about five minutes Poirot reappeared.

 

“Now, my friend,” he said gaily. “To a post office. I have to send a telegram.”

 

“Who to?”

 

“Lord Yardly.” He discounted further inquiries by slipping his arm through mine.