hand. It is a pity you did not realize that."
"Ma foi!" said Poirot airily, his nonchalance quite restored after its brief eclipse. "One cannot think of everything!"
I felt sorry for him. He did so hate failure of any kind.
"Cheer up," I said consolingly. "Better luck next time."
At the Magnificent, we were ushered at once into the manager's office. Gregory Rolf was there with two men from Scotland Yard. A pale-faced clerk sat opposite them.
Rolf nodded to us as we entered.
"We're getting to the bottom of it," he said. "But it's almost unbelievable. How the guy had the nerve I can't think."
A very few minutes sufficed to give us the facts. Mr. Rolf had gone out of the hotel at 11.15. At 11.30, a gentleman, so like him in appearance as to pass muster, entered the hotel and demanded the jewel-case from the safe deposit. He duly signed the receipt, remarking carelessly as he did so: "Looks a bit different from my ordinary one, but I hurt my hand getting out of the taxi." The clerk merely smiled and remarked that he saw very little difference. Rolf
