"It seems to me probable, Monsieur, that the jewels will change hands in Nice—may already have done so."
"Ah!" said M. Papopolous.
He sipped his coffee reflectively, and looked a shade more noble and patriarchal than usual.
"I say to myself," continued Poirot, with animation, "what good fortune! My old friend, M. Papopolous, is in Nice. He will aid me."
"And how do you think I can aid you?" inquired M. Papopolous coldly.
"I said to myself, without doubt M. Papopolous is in Nice on business."
"Not at all," said M. Papopolous, "I am here for my health—by the doctor's orders."
He coughed hollowly.
"I am desolated to hear it," replied Poirot, with somewhat insincere sympathy. "But to continue. When a Russian Grand Duke, an Austrian Archduchess, or an Italian Prince wish to dispose of their family jewels—to whom do they go? To M. Papopolous, is it not? He who is famous all over the world for the discretion with which he arranges these things."
The other bowed.
"You flatter me."
"It is a great thing, discretion," mused Poirot, and was rewarded by the fleeting smile which passed across the Greek's face. "I, too, can be discreet."
The eyes of the two men met.
Then Poirot went on speaking very slowly, and obviously picking his words with care.
"I say to myself, this: if these jewels have changed hands in Nice, M. Papopolous would have heard of it.
