“Yes,” said Poirot, “I think there is. You may remember, M. Papopolous, that seventeen years ago there was a certain article in your hands, left there as security by a very⁠—er⁠—Prominent Person. It was in your keeping and it unaccountably disappeared. You were, if I may use the English expression, in the soup.”

His eyes came gently round to the girl. She had pushed her cup and plate aside, and with both elbows on the table and her chin resting on her hands was listening eagerly. Still keeping an eye on her he went on:

“I am in Paris at the time. You send for me. You place yourself in my hands. If I restore to you that⁠—article, you say I shall earn your undying gratitude. Eh bien! I did restore it to you.”

A long sigh came from M. Papopolous.