"Yes."
"Some one who knows something?"
"Some one who might know something. In these matters one must leave no stone unturned. Au revoir, Mademoiselle."
Lenox accompanied him to the door.
"Have I—helped?" she asked.
Poirot's face softened as he looked up at her standing on the doorstep above him.
"Yes, Mademoiselle, you have helped. If things are very dark, always remember that."
When the car had driven off he relapsed into a frowning absorption, but in his eyes was that faint green light which was always the precursor of the triumph to be.
He was a few minutes late at the rendezvous, and found that M. Papopolous and his daughter had arrived before him. His apologies were abject, and he outdid himself in politeness and small attentions. The Greek was looking particularly benign and noble this evening, a sorrowful patriarch of blameless life. Zia was looking handsome and good humoured. The dinner was a pleasant one. Poirot was his best and most sparkling self. He told anecdotes, he made jokes, he paid graceful compliments to Zia Papopolous, and he told many interesting incidents of his career. The menu was a carefully selected one, and the wine was excellent.
At the close of dinner M. Papopolous inquired politely:
"And the tip I gave you? You have had your little flutter on the horse?"
"I am in communication with—er—my bookmaker," replied Poirot.
