"Always you have had a penchant for auburn hair!" murmured Poirot. "But continue."

"Blue eyes and a very nice complexion and - well, that's all, I think," I concluded lamely.

"And her husband?"

"Oh, he's quite a nice fellow - nothing startling."

"Dark or fair?"

"I don't know - betwixt and between, and just an ordinary sort of face." Poirot nodded.

"Yes, there are hundreds of these average men - and, anyway, you bring more sympathy and appreciation to your description of women. Do you know anything about these people? Does Parker know them well?"

"They are just recent acquaintances, I believe. But surely, Poirot, you don't think for an instant -" Poirot raised his hand.

"Tout doucement, mon ami. Have I said that I think anything? All I say is - it is a curious story. And there is nothing to throw light upon it; except perhaps the lady's name, eh, Hastings!"

"Her name is Stella," I said stiffly, "but I don't see -" Poirot interrupted me with a tremendous chuckle. Something seemed to be amusing him vastly.

"And Stella means a star, does it not? Famous!"

"What on earth -"

"And stars give light! Voilà! Calm yourself, Hastings. Do not put on that air of injured dignity. Come, we will go to Montagu Mansions and make a few inquiries."

I accompanied him, nothing loath. The Mansions were a handsome block of buildings in excellent repair. A uniformed porter was sunning himself on the threshold, and it was to him that Poirot addressed himself:

"Pardon, but could you tell me if a Mr and Mrs Robinson reside here?" The porter was a man of few words and apparently of a sour or suspicious disposition. He hardly looked at us and grunted out:

"No. 4. Second floor."

"I thank you. Can you tell me how long they have been here?"

"Six months."

I started forward in amazement, conscious as I did so of Poirot's malicious grin.

"Impossible," I cried. "You must be making a mistake."

"Six months."

"Are you sure? The lady I mean is tall and fair with reddish gold hair and -"

"That's 'er," said the porter. "Come in the Michaelmas quarter, they did. Just six months ago." He appeared to lose interest in us and retreated slowly up the hall. I followed Poirot outside.

"Eh bien, Hastings?" my friend demanded slyly. "Are you so sure now that delightful women always speak the truth?"

I did not reply.

Poirot had steered his way into Brompton Road before I asked him what he was going to do and where we were going.

"To the house agents, Hastings. I have a great desire to have a flat in Montagu Mansions. If I am not mistaken, several interesting things will take place there before long." We were fortunate in our quest. No. 8. on the fourth floor, was to be let furnished at ten guineas a week. Poirot promptly took it for a month. Outside in the street again, he silenced my protests: