you it is not necessary. You have told us it is only the murderer you seek, and that you are not concerned over the jewels. I believe you. You were quite right when you guessed that we were in Nice because of the rubies. They have been handed over here according to plan. My father has them now. He gave you a hint the other day as to who our mysterious client was.”
“The Marquis?” murmured Poirot softly.
“Yes, the Marquis.”
“Have you ever seen the Marquis, Mademoiselle Zia?”
“Once,” said the girl. “But not very well,” she added. “It was through a keyhole.”
“That always presents difficulties,” said Poirot sympathetically, “but all the same you saw him. You would know him again?”
Zia shook her head.
“He wore a mask,” she explained.
“Young or old?”
“He had white hair. It may have been a wig, it may not. It fitted very well. But I do not think he was old. His walk was young, and so was his voice.”
“His voice?” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Ah, his voice! Would you know it again, Mademoiselle Zia?”
“I might,” said the girl.
“You were interested in him, eh? It was that that took you to the keyhole.”
Zia nodded.