“Well, you see, it’s this way, Monsieur Poirot. On Friday we’re going down to Yardly Chase to spend a few days with Lord and Lady Yardly.”

Her words awoke a vague echo of remembrance in my mind. Some gossip⁠—what was it now? A few years ago Lord and Lady Yardly had paid a visit to the States, rumour had it that his lordship had rather gone the pace out there with the assistance of some lady friends⁠—but surely there was something more, some gossip which coupled Lady Yardly’s name with that of a “movie” star in California⁠—why! it came to me in a flash⁠—of course it was none other than Gregory B. Rolf.

“I’ll let you into a little secret, Monsieur Poirot,” Miss Marvell was continuing. “We’ve got a deal on with Lord Yardly. There’s some chance of our arranging to film a play down there in his ancestral pile.”

“At Yardly Chase?” I cried, interested. “Why, it’s one of the show places of England.”

Miss Marvell nodded.