At the Casino the party separated, Poirot devoting himself solely to Zia, whilst Papopolous himself drifted away.
Poirot was not fortunate, but Zia had a run of good luck, and had soon won a few thousand francs.
“It would be as well,” she observed drily to Poirot, “if I stopped now.”
Poirot’s eyes twinkled.
“Superb!” he exclaimed. “You are the daughter of your father, Mademoiselle Zia. To know when to stop. Ah! that is the art.”
He looked round the rooms.
“I cannot see your father anywhere about,” he remarked carelessly. “I will fetch your cloak for you, Mademoiselle, and we will go out in the gardens.”