her hand. In the palm, a stone of white fire, exquisitely set in platinum, lay and winked at us solemnly.
Poirot drew in his breath with a long hiss.
"Épatant!" he murmured. "You permit, madame?" He took the jewel in his own hand and scrutinized it keenly, then restored it to her with a little bow. "A magnificent stone—without a flaw. Ah, cent tonnerres! and you carry it about with you, comme ça!"
"No, no, I'm very careful really, Monsieur Poirot. As a rule it's locked up in my jewelcase, and left in the hotel safe deposit. We're staying at the Magnificent, you know. I just brought it along to-day for you to see."
"And you will leave it with me, n'est-ce pas? You will be advised by Papa Poirot?"
"Well, you see, it's this way, Monsieur Poirot. On Friday we're going down to Yardly Chase to spend a few days with Lord and Lady Yardly."
Her words awoke a vague echo of remembrance in my mind. Some gossip—what was it now? A few years ago Lord and Lady Yardly had paid a visit to the States, rumour had it that his lordship had rather gone the pace out there with the assistance of some lady friends—but surely there
