“It was not as a Greek I meant,” said Poirot.
There was a silence, and then the old man drew himself up proudly.
“You are right, M. Poirot,” he said quietly. “I am a Jew. And, as you say, our race does not forget.”
“You will aid me then?”
“As regards the jewels, Monsieur, I can do nothing.”
The old man, as Poirot had done just now, picked his words carefully.
“I know nothing. I have heard nothing. But I can perhaps do you a good turn—that is, if you are interested in racing.”
“Under certain circumstances I might be,” said Poirot, eyeing him steadily.
“There is a horse running at Longchamps that would, I think, repay attention. I cannot say for certain, you understand; this news passed through so many hands.”
He stopped, fixing Poirot with his eye, as though to make sure that the latter was comprehending him.
“Perfectly, perfectly,” said Poirot, nodding.
“The name of the horse,” said M. Papopolous, leaning back and joining the tips of his fingers together, “is the Marquis. I think, but I am not sure, that it is an English horse, eh, Zia?”
“I think so too,” said the girl.
Poirot got up briskly.