He did not, however, go straight to the cloakroom. His sharp eyes had seen but a little while before the departure of M. Papopolous. He was anxious to know what had become of the wily Greek. He ran him to earth unexpectedly in the big entrance hall. He was standing by one of the pillars, talking to a lady who had just arrived. The lady was Mirelle.
Poirot sidled unostentatiously round the room. He arrived at the other side of the pillar, and unnoticed by the two who were talking together in an animated fashion—or rather, that is to say, the dancer was talking, Papopolous contributing an occasional monosyllable and a good many expressive gestures.
“I tell you I must have time,” the dancer was saying. “If you give me time I will get the money.”
“To wait”—the Greek shrugged his shoulders—“it is awkward.”
“Only a very little while,” pleaded the other. “Ah! but you must! A week—ten days—that is all I ask. You can be sure of your affair. The money will be forthcoming.”
Papopolous shifted a little and looked round him uneasily—to find Poirot almost at his elbow with a beaming innocent face.
“ Ah! vous voilà , M. Papopolous. I have been looking for you. It is permitted that I take Mademoiselle Zia for a little turn in the gardens? Good evening, Mademoiselle.” He bowed very low to Mirelle. “A thousand pardons that I did not see you immediately.”
The dancer accepted his greetings rather impatiently. She was clearly annoyed at the interruption of her tête-à-tête. Poirot was quick to take the hint. Papopolous had already murmured: “Certainly—but certainly,” and Poirot withdrew forthwith.