"Have you ever seen the Marquis, Mademoiselle Zia?"
"Once," said the girl. "But not very well," she added. "It was through a keyhole."
"That always presents difficulties," said Poirot sympathetically, "but all the same you saw him. You would know him again?"
Zia shook her head.
"He wore a mask," she explained.
"Young or old?"
"He had white hair. It may have been a wig, it may not. It fitted very well. But I do not think he was old. His walk was young, and so was his voice."
"His voice?" said Poirot thoughtfully. "Ah, his voice! Would you know it again, Mademoiselle Zia?"
"I might," said the girl.
"You were interested in him, eh? It was that that took you to the keyhole."
Zia nodded.
"Yes, yes. I was curious. One had heard so much—he is not the ordinary thief—he is more like a figure of history or romance."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "yes; perhaps so."
"But it is not this that I meant to tell you," said Zia. "It was just one other little fact that I thought might be—well—useful to you."
"Yes?" said Poirot encouragingly.
"The rubies, as I say, were handed over to my father here at Nice. I did not see the person who handed them over, but"
"Yes?"
"I know one thing. It was a woman."
