Poirot bent over them and studied them carefully.

‘It seems to be as you say.’

‘Well, then?’

‘Do you mind if I ask a question?’

‘Not at all.’

‘What do you, personally, get out of this?’

Mr Robinson looked surprised.

‘My dear fellow. Money, of course. Quite a lot of money.’

Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.

‘It is a very old trade,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘And a lucrative one. There are quite a lot of us, a network all over the globe. We are, how shall I put it, the Arrangers behind the scenes. For kings, for presidents, for politicians, for all those, in fact, upon whom the fierce light beats, as a poet has put it. We work in with one another and remember this: we keep faith. Our profits are large but we are honest. Our services are costly—but we do render service.’

‘I see,’ said Poirot. ‘Eh bien! I agree to what you ask.’

‘I can assure you that that decision will please everyone.’ Mr Robinson’s eyes just rested for a moment on Colonel Pikeaway’s letter where it lay at Poirot’s right hand.

‘But just one little moment. I am human. I have curiosity. What are you going to do with these jewels?’

Mr Robinson looked at him. Then his large yellow face creased into a smile. He leaned forward.

‘I shall tell you.’

He told him.

II

Children were playing up and down the street. Their raucous cries filled the air. Mr Robinson, alighting ponderously from his Rolls, was cannoned into by one of them.

Mr Robinson put the child aside with a not unkindly hand and peered up at the number on the house.

No. 15. This was right. He pushed open the gate and went up the three steps to the front door. Neat white curtains at the windows, he noted, and a well-polished brass knocker. An insignificant little house in an insignificant street in an insignificant part of London, but it was well kept. It had self-respect.

The door opened. A girl of about twenty-five, pleasant looking, with a kind of fair, chocolate box prettiness, welcomed him with a smile.

‘Mr Robinson? Come in.’

She took him into the small sitting-room. A television set, cretonnes of a Jacobean pattern, a cottage piano against the wall. She had on a dark skirt and a grey pullover.

‘You’ll have some tea? I’ve got the kettle on.’

‘Thank you, but no. I never drink tea. And I can only stay a short time. I have only come to bring you what I wrote to you about.’

‘From Ali?’

‘Yes.’

‘There isn’t—there couldn’t be—any hope? I mean—it’s really true—that he was killed? There couldn’t be any mistake?’

‘I’m afraid there was no mistake,’ said Mr Robinson gently.

‘No—no, I suppose not. Anyway, I never expected—When he went back there I didn’t think really I’d ever see him again. I don’t mean I thought he was going to be killed or that there would be a Revolution. I just mean—well, you know—he’d have to carry on, do his stuff—what was expected of him. Marry one of his own people—all that.’