"This necklace—it was, without doubt, insured?"
Mr. Opalsen looked a trifle surprised at the question.
"Yes," he said hesitatingly, "that is so."
"But what does that matter?" broke in Mrs. Opalsen tearfully. "It's my necklace I want. It was unique. No money could be the same."
"I comprehend, madame," said Poirot soothingly. "I comprehend perfectly. To la femme sentiment is everything—is it not so? But monsieur, who has not the so fine susceptibility, will doubtless find some slight consolation in the fact."
"Of course, of course," said Mr. Opalsen rather uncertainly. "Still—"
He was interrupted by a shout of triumph from the inspector. He came in dangling something from his fingers.
With a cry, Mrs. Opalsen heaved herself up from her chair. She was a changed woman.
"Oh, oh, my necklace!"
She clasped it to her breast with both hands. We crowded round.
"Where was it?" demanded Opalsen.
"Maid's bed. In among the springs of the
