‘I can tell Mummy, can’t I?’ said Julia.

‘Of course. Well, Julia, that’s all settled. You’d better run along now.’

Julia departed. She closed the door after her. Miss Bulstrode looked very hard at Poirot.

‘I have understood you correctly, I think,’ she said. ‘Just now, you made a great parade of closing that door. Actually—you deliberately left it slightly open.’

Poirot nodded.

‘So that what we said could be overheard?’

‘Yes—if there was anyone who wanted to overhear. It was a precaution of safety for the child—the news must get round that what she found is safely in a bank, and not in her possession.’

Miss Bulstrode looked at him for a moment—then she pursed her lips grimly together.

‘There’s got to be an end to all this,’ she said.

II

‘The idea is,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘that we try to pool our ideas and information. We are very glad to have you with us, M. Poirot,’ he added. ‘Inspector Kelsey remembers you well.’

‘It’s a great many years ago,’ said Inspector Kelsey. ‘Chief Inspector Warrender was in charge of the case. I was a fairly raw sergeant, knowing my place.’

‘The gentleman called, for convenience’s sake by us—Mr Adam Goodman, is not known to you, M. Poirot, but I believe you do know his—his—er—chief. Special Branch,’ he added.

‘Colonel Pikeaway?’ said Hercule Poirot thoughtfully.

‘Ah, yes it is some time since I have seen him. Is he still as sleepy as ever?’ he asked Adam.

Adam laughed. ‘I see you know him all right, M. Poirot. I’ve never seen him wide awake. When I do, I’ll know that for once he isn’t paying attention to what goes on.’

‘You have something there, my friend. It is well observed.’

‘Now,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘let’s get down to things. I shan’t push myself forward or urge my own opinions. I’m here to listen to what the men who are actually working on the case know and think. There are a great many sides to all this, and one thing perhaps I ought to mention first of all. I’m saying this as a result of representations that have been made to me from—er—various quarters high up.’ He looked at Poirot. ‘Let’s say,’ he said, ‘that a little girl—a schoolgirl—came to you with a pretty tale of something she’d found in the hollowed-out handle of a tennis racquet. Very exciting for her. A collection, shall we say, of coloured stones, paste, good imitation—something of that kind—or even semi-precious stones which often look as attractive as the other kind. Anyway let’s say something that a child would be excited to find. She might even have exaggerated ideas of its value. That’s quite possible, don’t you think?’ He looked very hard at Hercule Poirot.

‘It seems to me eminently possible,’ said Hercule Poirot.

‘Good,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Since the person who brought these—er—coloured stones into the country did so quite unknowingly and innocently, we don’t want any question of illicit smuggling to arise.