hinting that she was really a Russian Grand Duchess—one of the Czar’s daughters

who managed to escape from the Bolsheviks.

 

Well, it seems that M. Poirot solved a baffling murder mystery that threatened

to involve them both. Prince Paul was beside himself with gratitude.”

 

“Did he give him an emerald tie pin the size of a plover’s egg?” I inquired

sarcastically.

 

“He didn’t mention it. Why?”

 

“Nothing,” I said. “I thought it was always done. It is in detective fiction

anyway. The super detective always has his rooms littered with rubies and pearls

and emeralds from grateful Royal clients.”

 

“It’s very interesting to hear about these things from the inside,” said my

sister complacently.

 

It would be—to Caroline. I could not but admire the ingenuity of M.

 

Hercule Poirot, who had selected unerringly the case of all others that would

most appeal to an elderly maiden lady living in a small village.

 

“Did he tell you if the dancer was really a Grand Duchess?” I inquired.