'But above everything - no publicity,' said Mr Marcus Hardman for perhaps the fourteenth time.

The word publicity occurred throughout his conversation with the regularity of a leitmotif. Mr Hardman was a small man, delicately plump, with exquisitely manicured hands and a plaintive tenor voice. In his way, he was somewhat of a celebrity and the fashionable life was his profession. He was rich, but not remarkably so, and he spent his money zealously in the pursuit of social pleasure. His hobby was collecting. He had the collector's soul.

Old lace, old fans, antique jewellery - nothing crude or modem for Marcus Hardman.

Poirot and I, obeying an urgent summons, had arrived to find the little man writhing in an agony of indecision. Under the circumstances, to call in the police was abhorrent to him. On the other hand, not to call them in was to acquiesce in the loss of some of the gems of his collection. He hit upon Poirot as a compromise.

'My rubies, Monsieur Poirot, and the emerald necklace - said to have belonged to Catherine de' Medici. Oh, the emerald necklace?

'If you will recount to me the circumstances of their dis-appearance?' suggested Poirot gently.

'I am endeavouring to do so. Yesterday afternoon I had a little tea party - quite an informal affair, some half a dozen people or so. I have given one or two of them during the season, and though perhaps I should not say so, they have been quite a success. Some good music - Nacora, the pianist, and Katherine Bird, the Austral-ian contralto - in the big studio. Well, early in the afternoon, I was showing my guests my collection of medieval jewels. I keep them in the small wall safe over there. It is arranged like a cabinet inside, with coloured velvet background, to display the stone.

Afterwards we inspected the fans - in that case on the wall. Then we all went to the studio for music. It was not until after everyone had gone that I discovered the safe rifledl I must have failed to shut it properly, and someone had seized the opportunity to denude it of its contents. The rubies, Monsieur Poirot, the emerald necklace - the collection of a lifetimel What would I not give to recover them! But there must be no publicity! You fully understand that, do you not, Monsieur Poirot? My own guests, my personal friends! It would be a horrible scandall'

'Who was the last person to leave this room when you went to the studio?'

'Mr Johnston. You may know him? The South African million-aire.

He has just rented the Abbotburys' house in Park Lane. He lingered behind a few moments, I remember. But surely, oh, surely it could not be he!'

'Did any of your guests return to this room during the afternoon on any pretext?'

'I was prepared for that question, Monsieur Poirot. Three of them did so. Countess?era Rossakoff, Mr Bernard Parker, and Lady Runcorn.'

'Let us hear about them.'

'The Countess Rossakoff is a very charming Russian lady, a member of the old rgime. She has recently come to this country.

She had bade me goodbye, and I was therefore somewhat surprised to find her in this room apparently gazing in rapture at my cabinet of fans. You know, Monsieur Poirot, the more I think of it, the more suspicious it seems to me. Don't you agree?'

'Extremely suspicious; but let us hear about the others.'

'Well, Parker simply came here to fetch a case of miniatures that

I was anxious to show to Lady Runcorn.'

'And Lady Runcorn herself?'

'As I dare say you know, Lady Runcorn is a middle-aged woman of considerable force of character who devotes most of her time to various charitable committees. She simply returned to fetch a handbag she had laid down somewhere.'

'Bien, monsieur. So we have four possible suspects. The Russian countess, the English grande dame, the South African millionaire, and Mr Bernard Parker. Who is Mr Parker, by the way?' The question appeared to embarrass Mr Hardman considerably.

'He is - er - he is a young fellow. Well, in fact, a young fellow I know.' 'I had already deduced as much,' replied Poirot gravely. 'What does he do, this Mr Parker?' 'He is a young man about town - not, perhaps, quite in the swim, if I may so express myself.' 'How did he come to be a friend of yours, may I ask?' 'Well - er - on one or two occasions he has - performed certain little commissions for me.' 'Continue, monsieur,' said Poirot.

Hardman looked piteously at him. Evidently the last thing he wanted to do was to continue. But as Poirot maintained an inexorable silence, he capitulated.

'You see, Monsieur Poirot - it is well known that I am interested in antique jewels. Sometimes there is a family heirloom to be disposed of- which, mind you, would never be sold in the open market or to a dealer. But a private sale to me is a very different matter. Parker arranges the details of such things, he is in touch with both sides, and thus any little embarrassment is avoided. He brings anything of that kind to my notice. For instance, the Countess Rossakoff has brought some family jewels with her from Russia. She is anxious to sell them. Bernard Parker was to have arranged the transaction.' 'I see,' said Poirot thoughtfully. 'And you trust him implicitly?' 'I have had no reason to do otherwise.' 'Mr Hardman, of these four people, which do you yourself suspect?' 'Oh, Monsieur Poirot, what a questionl They are my friends, as I told you. I suspect none of them - or all of them, whichever way you like to put it.' 'I do not agree. You suspect one of those four. It is not Countess Rossakoff. It is not Mr Parker. Is it Lady Runcorn or Mr Johnston?' 'You drive me into a corner, Monsieur Poirot, you do indeed. I am most anxious to have no scandal. Lady Runcorn belongs to one of the oldest families in England; but it is true, it is mot unfortunately true, that her aunt, Lady Caroline, suffered from a most melancholy affliction. It was understood, of course, by all her friends, and her maid returned the teaspoons, or whatever it was, as promptly as possible. You see my predicamentl'

'So Lady Runcorn had an aunt who was a kleptomaniac? Very interesting. You permit that I examine the safe?'

Mr Hardman assenting, Poirot pushed back the door of the safe and examined the interior. The empty velvet-lined shelves gaped at us.

'Even now the door does not shut properly,' murmured Poirot, as he swung it to and fro. 'I wonder why? Ah, what have we here?

A glove, caught in the hinge. A man's glove.'

He held it out to Mr Hardman.

'That's not one of my gloves,' the latter declared.

'Ahal Something morel' Poirot bent deftly and picked up a small object from the floor of the safe. It was a flat cigarette case made of black moire.

'My cigarette casei' cried Mr Hardman.

'Yours? Surely not, monsieur. Those are not your initials.'

He pointed to an entwined monogram of two letters executed in platinum.

Hardman took it in his hand.

'You are right,' he declared. 'It is very like mine, but the initials are different. A 'B' and a 'P'. Good heavens - Parkerl'

'It would seem so,' said Poirot. 'A somewhat careless young man - especially if the glove is his also. That would be a double clue, would it not?'

'Bernard Parker!' murmured Hardman. 'What a reliefl Well, Monsieur Poirot, I leave it to you to recover the jewels. Place the matter in the hands of the police if you think fit - that is, if you are quite sure that it is he who is guilty.'

'See you, my friend,' said Poirot to me, as we left the house together, 'he has one law for the titled, and another law for the plain, this Mr Hardman. Me, I have not yet been ennobled, so I am on the side of the plain. I have sympathy for this young man.

The whole thing was a little curious, was it not? There was Hardman suspecting Lady Runcorn; there was I, suspecting the Countess and Johnston; and all the time, the obscure Mr Parker was our man.'