“Yes,” he said hesitatingly, “that is so.”

“But what does that matter?” broke in Mrs. Opalsen tearfully. “It’s my necklace I want. It was unique. No money could be the same.”

“I comprehend, madame,” said Poirot soothingly. “I comprehend perfectly. To la femme sentiment is everything⁠—is it not so? But monsieur, who has not the so fine susceptibility, will doubtless find some slight consolation in the fact.”

“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Opalsen rather uncertainly. “Still⁠—”

He was interrupted by a shout of triumph from the inspector. He came in dangling something from his fingers.