“Well, I must run away,” she declared archly. “Very glad to have met you and your friend, Mr. Poirot.”
“And the photograph? When may I have it?”
“I’ll look it out to night. I think I know where to lay my hand upon it. And I’ll send it to you right away.”
“A thousand thanks, mademoiselle. You are all that is of the most amiable. I hope that we shall soon be able to arrange another little lunch together.”
“As soon as you like,” said Miss Monro. “I’m willing.”
“Let me see, I do not think that I have your address?”
With a grand air, Miss Monro drew a card from her hand-bag, and handed it to him. It was a somewhat dirty card, and the original address had been scratched out and another substituted in pencil.
Then, with a good many bows and gesticulations on Poirot’s part, we bade farewell to the lady and got away.
“Do you really think this photograph so important?” I asked Poirot.
“Yes, mon ami. The camera does not lie. One can magnify a photograph, seize salient points that otherwise would remain unnoticed.
