“You are quite right, M. Poirot,” he said. “Painful as it is, I have no right to keep anything back.”

The Commissary gave a sigh of relief, and the Examining Magistrate leaned back in his chair and adjusted a pince-nez on his long thin nose.

“Perhaps you will tell us in your own words, M. Van Aldin,” he said, “all that you know of this gentleman.”

“It began eleven or twelve years ago⁠—in Paris. My daughter was a young girl then, full of foolish, romantic notions, like all young girls are. Unknown to me, she made the acquaintance of this Comte de la Roche. You have heard of him, perhaps?”

The Commissary and Poirot nodded in assent.

“He calls himself the Comte de la Roche,” continued Van Aldin, “but I doubt if he has any right to the title.”