“About two and a half years, that is all,” said Mr. Aarons. “Some French duke started her. I hear now that she has taken up with the ex-Prime Minister of Greece. These are the chaps who manage to put money away quietly.”

“That is news to me,” said Poirot.

“Oh, she’s not one to let the grass grow under her feet. They say that young Kettering murdered his wife on her account. I don’t know, I am sure. Anyway, he is in prison, and she had to look round for herself, and pretty smart she has been about it. They say she is wearing a ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg⁠—not that I have ever seen a pigeon’s egg myself, but that is what they always call it in works of fiction.”

“A ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg!” said Poirot. His eyes were green and catlike. “How interesting!”