‘Mr Reggie Carrington?’

‘Yes. Anything I can do?’

‘Just tell me what you can about last night?’

‘Well, let me see, we played bridge—in the drawing-room. After that I went up to bed.’

‘That was at what time?’

‘Just before eleven. I suppose the robbery took place after that?’

‘Yes, after that. You did not hear or see anything?’

Reggie shook his head regretfully.

‘I’m afraid not. I went straight to bed and I sleep pretty soundly.’

‘You went straight up from the drawing-room to your bedroom and remained there until the morning?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Curious,’ said Poirot.

Reggie said sharply:

‘What do you mean, curious?’

‘You did not, for instance, hear a scream?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Ah, very curious.’

‘Look here, I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You are, perhaps, slightly deaf?’

‘Certainly not.’

Poirot’s lips moved. It was possible that he was repeating the word curious for the third time. Then he said:

‘Well, thank you, Mr Carrington, that is all.’

Reggie got up and stood rather irresolutely.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘now you come to mention it, I believe I did hear something of the kind.’

‘Ah, you did hear something?’

‘Yes, but you see, I was reading a book—a detective story as a matter of fact—and I—well, I didn’t really quite take it in.’

‘Ah,’ said Poirot, ‘a most satisfying explanation.’

His face was quite impassive.

Reggie still hesitated, then he turned and walked slowly to the door. There he paused and asked:

‘I say, what was stolen?’

‘Something of great value, Mr Carrington. That is all I am at liberty to say.’

‘Oh,’ said Reggie rather blankly.

He went out.

Poirot nodded his head.

‘It fits,’ he murmured. ‘It fits very nicely.’

He touched a bell and inquired courteously if Mrs Vanderlyn was up yet.

Chapter 7

Mrs Vanderlyn swept into the room looking very handsome. She was wearing an artfully-cut russet sports-suit that showed up the warm lights of her hair. She swept to a chair and smiled in a dazzling fashion at the little man in front of her.

For a moment something showed through the smile. It might have been triumph, it might almost have been mockery. It was gone almost immediately, but it had been there. Poirot found the suggestion of it interesting.

‘Burglars? Last night? But how dreadful! Why no, I never heard a thing. What about the police? Can’t they do anything?’

Again, just for a moment, the mockery showed in her eyes.

Hercule Poirot thought:

‘It is very clear that you are not afraid of the police, my lady. You know very well that they are not going to be called in.’

And from that followed—what?

He said soberly:

‘You comprehend, madame, it is an affair of the most discreet.’

‘Why, naturally, M.—Poirot—isn’t it?—I shouldn’t dream of breathing a word. I’m much too great an admirer of dear Lord Mayfield’s to do anything to cause him the least little bit of worry.’

She crossed her knees. A highly-polished slipper of brown leather dangled on the tip of her silk-shod foot.