the venerable Monsieur Papopolous, his daughter Zia beside him.
"I thought you had left Nice, Monsieur Poirot,” murmured the Greek as he took the detective's affectionately proffered hand.
"Business compelled me to return, my dear Monsieur Papopolous."
"Business?"
"Yes, business. And talking of business, I hope your health is better, my dear friend?"
"Much better. In fact, we are returning to Paris tomorrow."
"I am enchanted to hear such good news. You have not completely ruined the Greek ex-Minister, I hope."
"I?"
"I understand you sold him a very wonderful ruby which—strictly entre nous—is being worn by Mademoiselle Mirelle, the dancer?"
"Yes," murmured Monsieur Papopolous; "yes, that is so."
"A ruby not unlike the famous 'Heart of Fire'."
"It has points of resemblance, certainly," said the Greek casually.
"You have a wonderful hand with jewels. Monsieur Papopolous. I congratulate you. Mademoiselle Zia, I am desolate that you are returning to Paris so speedily. I had hoped to see some more of you now that my business is accomplished."
"Would one be indiscreet if one asked what that business was?" asked Monsieur Papopolous.
"Not at all, not at all. I have just succeeded in laying the Marquis by the heels."
