"There is a horse running at Longchamps that would, I think, repay attention. I cannot say for certain, you understand; this news passed through so many hands."
He stopped, fixing Poirot with his eye, as though to make sure that the latter was comprehending him.
"Perfectly, perfectly," said Poirot, nodding.
"The name of the horse," said M. Papopolous, leaning back and joining the tips of his fingers together, "is the Marquis. I think, but I am not sure, that it is an English horse, eh, Zia?"
"I think so too," said the girl.
Poirot got up briskly.
"I thank you, Monsieur," he said. "It is a great thing to have what the English call a tip from the stable. Au revoir, Monsieur, and many thanks."
He turned to the girl.
"Au revoir, Mademoiselle Zia. It seems to me but yesterday that I saw you in Paris. One would say that two years had passed at most."
"There is a difference between sixteen and thirty-three," said Zia ruefully.