Word came down that Mademoiselle Mirelle would receive them.

When they were ushered into the dancer’s apartments, Poirot immediately took the lead.

“Mademoiselle,” he murmured, bowing very low, “we are here on behalf of M. Van Aldin.”

“Ah! And why did he not come himself?”

“He is indisposed,” said Poirot mendaciously; “the Riviera throat, it has him in its grip, but me I am empowered to act for him, as is Major Knighton, his secretary. Unless, of course, Mademoiselle would prefer to wait a fortnight or so.”

If there was one thing of which Poirot was tolerably certain, it was that to a temperament such as Mirelle’s the mere word “wait” was anathema.