I shook my head. “It’s not locked now. See.” I pulled it open as I spoke.
As I did so something fluttered to the ground. I picked it up. It was a piece of silk, and the embroidery was unmistakable. It had been torn from a Chinaman’s robe.
“In his haste it caught in the door,” I explained. “Come, hurry. He cannot have gone far as yet.”
But in vain we hunted and searched. In the pitch darkness of the night, the thief had found it easy to make his getaway. We returned reluctantly, and Lord Yardly sent off one of the footmen post-haste to fetch the police.
Lady Yardly, aptly ministered to by Poirot, who is as good as a woman in these matters, was sufficiently recovered to be able to tell her story.
“I was just going to turn on the other light,” she said, “when a man sprang on me from behind. He tore my necklace from my neck with such force that I fell headlong to the floor. As I fell I saw him disappearing through the side door. Then I realized by the pig-tail and the embroidered robe that he was a Chinaman.” She stopped with a shudder.
The butler reappeared. He spoke in a low voice to Lord Yardly.
“A gentleman from Mr. Hoffberg’s, m’lord. He says you expect him.”
“Good heavens!” cried the distracted nobleman. “I must see him, I suppose. No, not here, Mullings, in the library.”
I drew Poirot aside.