Poirot sat up suddenly in his chair. A very faint green light glowed in his eyes. He looked extraordinarily like a sleek, well-fed cat.
“One more question, M. Kettering,” he said. “Will you give me the date when you last saw your wife?”
“Let me see,” Kettering reflected. “It must have been—yes, over three weeks ago. I am afraid I can’t give you the date exactly.”
“No matter,” said Poirot drily; “that is all I wanted to know.”
“Well,” said Derek Kettering impatiently, “anything further?”
He looked towards M. Carrège. The latter sought inspiration from Poirot, and received it in a very faint shake of the head.
“No, M. Kettering,” he said politely; “no, I do not think we need trouble you any further. I wish you good morning.”
“Good morning,” said Kettering. He went out, banging the door behind him.
Poirot leaned forward and spoke sharply, as soon as the young man was out of the room.
“Tell me,” he said peremptorily, “when did you speak of these rubies to M. Kettering?”
“I have not spoken of them,” said M. Carrège. “It was only yesterday afternoon that we learnt about them from M. Van Aldin.”
“Yes; but there was a mention of them in the Comte’s letter.”
M. Carrège looked pained.
“Naturally I did not speak of that letter to M. Kettering,” he said in a shocked voice. “It would have been most indiscreet at the present