yesterday that I saw you in Paris. One would say that two years had passed at most."
"There is a difference between sixteen and thirty-three," said Zia ruefully.
"Not in your case," declared Poirot gallantly. "You and your father will perhaps dine with me one night."
"We shall be delighted," replied Zia.
"Then we will arrange it," declared Poirot, "and now—je me sauve."
Poirot walked along the street humming a little tune to himself. He twirled his stick with a jaunty air, once or twice he smiled to himself quietly. He turned into the first Bureau de Poste he came to and sent off a telegram. He took some time in wording it, but it was in code and he had to call upon his memory. It purported to deal with a missing scarf-pin, and was addressed to Inspector Japp, Scotland Yard.
Decoded, it was short and to the point. "Wire me everything known about man whose soubriquet is the Marquis."
