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in a mental fog.’

      ‘How did you get the diamond?’

      ‘From Mr Rolf.’

      ‘Rolf?’

      ‘Mais oui!’ The warning letters, the Chinaman, the article in Society Gossip, all sprang from the ingenious brain of Mr Rolf! The two diamonds, supposed to be so miraculously alike – bah! they did not exist. There was only one diamond, my friend! Originally in the Yardly collection, for three years it has been in the possession of Mr Rolf. He stole it this morning with the assistance of a touch of grease paint at the corner of each eye! Ah, I must see him on the film, he is indeed an artist, celui-là!’

      ‘But why should he steal his own diamond?’ I asked, puzzled.

      ‘For many reasons. To begin with, Lady Yardly was getting restive.’

      ‘Lady Yardly?’

      ‘You comprehend she was left much alone in California. Her husband was amusing himself elsewhere. Mr Rolf was handsome, he had an air about him of romance. But au fond, he is very businesslike, ce monsieur! He made love to Lady Yardly, and then he blackmailed her. I taxed the lady with the truth the other night, and she admitted it. She swore that she had only been indiscreet, and I believe her. But, undoubtedly, Rolf had letters of hers that could be twisted to bear a different interpretation. Terrified by the threat of a divorce, and the prospect of being separated from her children, she agreed to all he wished. She had no money of her own, and she was forced to permit him to substitute a paste replica for the real stone. The coincidence of the date of the appearance of “The Western Star” struck me at once. All goes well. Lord Yardly prepares to range himself – to settle down. And then comes the menace of the possible sale of the diamond. The substitution will be discovered. Without doubt she writes off frantically to Gregory Rolf who has just arrived in England. He soothes her by promising to arrange all – and prepares for a double robbery. In this way he will quiet the lady, who might conceivably tell all to her husband, an affair which would not suit our blackmailer at all, he will have £50,000 insurance money (aha, you had forgotten that!), and he will still have the diamond! At this point I put my fingers in the pie. The arrival of a diamond expert is announced. Lady Yardly, as I felt sure she would, immediately arranges a robbery – and does it very well too! But Hercule Poirot, he sees nothing but facts. What happens in actuality? The lady switches off the light, bangs the door, throws the necklace down the passage, and screams. She has already wrenched out the diamond with pliers upstairs –’

      ‘But we saw the necklace round her neck!’ I objected. ‘I demand pardon, my friend. Her hand concealed the part of it where the gap would have shown. To place a piece of silk in the door beforehand is child’s play! Of course, as soon as Rolf read of the robbery, he arranged his own little comedy. And very well he played it!’

      ‘What did you say to him?’ I asked with lively curiosity.

      ‘I said to him that Lady Yardly had told her husband all, that I was empowered to recover the jewel, and that if it were not immediately handed over proceedings would be taken. Also a few more little lies which occurred to me. He was as wax in my hands!’

      I pondered the matter.

      ‘It seems a little unfair on Mary Marvell. She has lost her diamond through no fault of her own.’

      ‘Bah!’ said Poirot brutally. ‘She has a magnificent advertisement. That is all she cares for, that one! Now the other, she is different. Bonne mère, très femme!’

      ‘Yes,’ I said doubtfully, hardly sharing Poirot’s views on femininity. ‘I suppose it was Rolf who sent her the duplicate letters.’

      ‘Pas du tout,’ said Poirot briskly. ‘She came by the advice of Mary Cavendish to seek my aid in her dilemma. Then she heard that Mary Marvell, whom she knew to be her enemy, had been here, and she changed her mind jumping at a pretext that you, my friend, offered her. A very few questions sufficed to show me that you told her of the letters, not she you! She jumped at the chance your words offered.’

      ‘I don’t believe it,’ I cried, stung.

      ‘Si, si, mon ami, it is a pity that you study not the psychology. She told you that the letters were destroyed? Oh, la la, never does a woman destroy a letter if she can avoid it! Not even if it would be more prudent to do so!’

      ‘It’s all very well,’ I said, my anger rising, ‘but you’ve made a perfect fool of me! From beginning to end! No, it’s all very well to try and explain it away afterwards. There really is a limit!’

      ‘But you were so enjoying yourself, my friend, I had not the heart to shatter your illusions.’

      ‘It’s no good. You’ve gone a bit too far this time.’

      ‘Mon Dieu! but how you enrage yourself for nothing, mon ami!’

      ‘I’m fed up!’ I went out, banging the door. Poirot had made an absolute laughing-stock of me. I decided that he needed a sharp lesson. I would let some time elapse before I forgave him. He had encouraged me to make a perfect fool of myself.

       7 The Tragedy at Marsdon Manor

      ‘The Tragedy at Marsdon Manor’ was first published in The Sketch, 18 April 1923.

      I had been called away from town for a few days, and on my return found Poirot in the act of strapping up his small valise.

      ‘A la bonne heure, Hastings, I feared you would not have returned in time to accompany me.’

      ‘You are called away on a case, then?’

      ‘Yes, though I am bound to admit that, on the face of it, the affair does not seem promising. The Northern Union Insurance Company have asked me to investigate the death of a Mr Maltravers who a few weeks ago insured his life with them for the large sum of fifty thousand pounds.’

      ‘Yes?’ I said, much interested.

      ‘There was, of course, the usual suicide clause in the policy. In the event of his committing suicide within a year the premiums would be forfeited. Mr Maltravers was duly examined by the Company’s own doctor, and although he was a man slightly past the prime of life was passed as being in quite sound health. However, on Wednesday last – the day before yesterday – the body of Mr Maltravers was found in the grounds of his house in Essex, Marsdon Manor, and the cause of his death is described as some kind of internal haemorrhage. That in itself would be nothing remarkable, but sinister rumours as to Mr Maltravers’ financial position have been in the air of late, and the Northern Union have ascertained beyond any possible doubt that the deceased gentleman stood upon the verge of bankruptcy. Now that alters matters considerably. Maltravers had a beautiful young wife, and it is suggested that he got together all the ready money he could for the purpose of paying the premiums on a life insurance for his wife’s benefit, and then committed suicide. Such a thing is not uncommon. In any case, my friend Alfred Wright, who is a director of the Northern Union, has asked me to investigate the facts of the case, but, as I told him, I am not very hopeful of success. If the cause of the death had been heart failure, I should have been more sanguine. Heart failure may always be translated as the inability of the local GP to discover what his patient really did die of, but a haemorrhage seems fairly definite. Still, we can but make some necessary inquiries. Five minutes to pack your bag, Hastings, and we will take a taxi to Liverpool Street.’

      About an hour later, we alighted from a Great Eastern train at the little station of Marsdon Leigh. Inquiries at the station yielded the information that Marsdon Manor was about a mile distant. Poirot decided to walk, and we betook ourselves along the main street.

      ‘What is our plan of campaign?’ I asked.

      ‘First I will call upon the doctor. I have ascertained that there is only one doctor in Marsdon Leigh, Dr Ralph Bernard. Ah, here we are at his house.’

      The

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