“Oh, he told you about it, did he? No, there’s nothing settled.” He hesitated, the brick-red colour of his face deepening. “Might as well get the thing straight. I’ve made rather an ass of myself in many ways, Monsieur Poirot⁠—and I’m head over ears in debt⁠—but I want to pull up. I’m fond of the kids, and I want to straighten things up, and be able to live on at the old place. Gregory Rolf is offering me big money⁠—enough to set me on my feet again. I don’t want to do it⁠—I hate the thought of all that crowd playacting round the Chase⁠—but I may have to, unless⁠—” He broke off.

Poirot eyed him keenly. “You have, then, another string to your bow? Permit that I make a guess? It is to sell the Star of the East?”

Lord Yardly nodded. “That’s it. It’s been in the family for some generations, but it’s not entailed. Still, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to find a purchaser. Hoffberg, the Hatton Garden man, is on the lookout for a likely customer, but he’ll have to find one soon, or it’s a washout.”