“I said I’d call round for you, Mary,” said Gregory Rolf, “and here I am. Well, what does Monsieur Poirot say to our little problem? Just one big hoax, same as I do?”
Poirot smiled up at the big actor. They made a ridiculous contrast.
“Hoax or no hoax, Mr. Rolf,” he said dryly, “I have advised Madame your wife not to take the jewel with her to Yardly Chase on Friday.”
“I’m with you there, sir. I’ve already said so to Mary. But there! She’s a woman through and through, and I guess she can’t bear to think of another woman outshining her in the jewel line.”
“What nonsense, Gregory!” said Mary Marvell sharply. But she flushed angrily.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Madame, I have advised. I can do no more. C’est fini.”
He bowed them both to the door.
“Ah! la la,” he observed, returning. “Histoire de femmes! The good husband, he hit the nail on the head—tout de même, he was not tactful! Assuredly not.”
I imparted to him my vague remembrances, and he nodded vigorously.