“Bien!” he said at length, with a curious look on his face. “The plot develops. Pass me, I pray you, that ‘Peerage’ on the top shelf there.” He turned the leaves. “Ah, here we are! ‘Yardly . . . 10th viscount, served South African War’ . . . tout ça n’a pas d’importance . . . ‘mar. 1907 Hon. Maude Stopperton, fourth daughter of 3rd Baron Cotteril’ . . . um, um, um, . . . ‘has iss. two daughters, born 1908, 1910. . . . Clubs . . . residences.’ . . . Voilà, that does not tell us much. But to-morrow morning we see this milord!”
“What?”
“Yes. I telegraphed to him.”
“I thought you had washed your hands of the case?”
“I am not acting for Miss Marvell since she refuses to be guided by my advice. What I do now is for my own satisfaction—the satisfaction of Hercule Poirot! Decidedly, I must have a finger in this pie.”
“And you calmly wire Lord Yardly to dash up to town just to suit your convenience. He won’t be pleased.”
“Au contraire, if I preserve for him his family diamond, he ought to be very grateful.”
“Then you really think there is a chance of it being stolen?” I asked eagerly.
“Almost a certainty,” replied Poirot placidly. “Everything points that way.”
“But how——”