“I think so too,” said the girl.

Poirot got up briskly.

“I thank you, Monsieur,” he said. “It is a great thing to have what the English call a tip from the stable. Au revoir, Monsieur, and many thanks.”

He turned to the girl.

“Au revoir, Mademoiselle Zia. It seems to me but yesterday that I saw you in Paris. One would say that two years had passed at most.”

“There is a difference between sixteen and thirty-three,” said Zia ruefully.

“Not in your case,” declared Poirot gallantly. “You and your father will perhaps dine with me one night.”

“We shall be delighted,” replied Zia.